


in a life that craves the hunger

by draaagon, Knightblazer



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Sex, Begging, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Bloodplay, Bottom Hank Anderson, Brainwashing, Character Turned Into Vampire, Dark, Dirty Talk, Dissociation, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Good Dog Sumo (Detroit: Become Human), M/M, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Painplay, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Psychological Torture, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Top Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Vampires, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2019-08-10 21:10:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 109,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16462391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draaagon/pseuds/draaagon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knightblazer/pseuds/Knightblazer
Summary: Hank had always known that he'd die on the job one day.The last thing he wanted was to become one of the very monsters that he hunted.(A Hank/Connor vampire AU.)





	1. don't fear the reaper

**Author's Note:**

> Before anything else I’d like to give a huge, special thank you and everything else to **Jan** , my partner in crime for this, for giving me the courage to write this crazy fic in the first place. I’m listing her as a co-writer for this fic because the direction/characterization/voice of Hank in this AU all comes from her—pretty much anything Hank says in this story is credited to her amazing brain. Also, without her none of this would have ever happened, and I would not be having the time of my life writing this fic that my 13 year old self would have died for. I am glad we reconnected through this fandom and ship, my good friend. <3
> 
> For everyone else, this is a pet project of mine that has been cooking for a while, and considering that its a vampire AU I felt it’d be appropriate for it to first come out on Halloween (it's already the 31st here, okay, it counts). I’m super excited to present this particular fic/AU to you all and I hope you guys enjoy it! This one is going to be a ride and a half, and I hope every subsequent wait from here will be worth it. 
> 
> **CAVEAT WARNING THING:** This fic is _not_ going to be light and fluffy. While there _are_ soft(er) moments scattered throughout, overall this still a fic that deals with a lot of the more classic, darker tropes of vampire fiction. The best way comparison that I’d make would be: if you can stomach something along the lines of _Hellsing (Ultimate)_ , then you can handle this fic. Also, please do heed all warnings that have been/will be tagged for this story; I will always update them accordingly with each chapter that comes.
> 
> Without further ado, please enjoy this fic! :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Hank, the end is only the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no warnings! except for character death I GUESS, but this is a vampire AU so what are you expecting.

Hindsight, Hank thinks to himself, is a fucking bitch.

It’s not as if he prides himself on it or anything, but hunting monsters is something that he has been doing for a good fucking portion of his life. When one somehow manages to last as long as he has, there are bound to be stories whispered of his various exploits. More than once Hank has had a young man or woman appear on his doorstep, their eyes staring up at him, bloodshot from lack of sleep, and plead for him to teach them how to hunt the monsters that took their loved ones away.

Sometimes, he relents and teaches, quietly hoping that he’s not sending them on a suicide mission. Other times he turns them away, knowing that they won’t last and imploring them to move on, as painful as it may be. But every time after that happens Hank picks one of his many bottles off the shelf and drinks, trying to drown the heartache and pain and bury them at the end of a bottle.

Hank understands revenge—it's how he started in the business too, anger and hate burning through him as he hunted down the monster who destroyed his family and his life. But even now in the years after the pain is still there, made worse every time he hears of another friend or hunter he had helped train is dead.

But none of that matters now. What matters is that Hank has been in the business for a long time, and that he should have known better. He should have planned, should have brought a partner just like he usually does. But no, he had thought—he didn’t get to live this long because he needed _help_. He had taken on all manner of creatures and monsters and beasts and had come out of it every single time. Those were the stories the other hunters would tell about him – Hank the Survivor, Fucking Tenacious Hank, who would hold on by the skin of his teeth. No matter who or what he went up against, he would make it through. Always.

Well, not so much this time.

His surroundings are startlingly quiet now considering the battle that had just taken place earlier. Hank had been tracking down this particular target for weeks, knowing that this was the night that he could corner it. Vampires have always been the trickiest monsters to hunt out of the whole lot because of all the friends they could bring. Fighting them in their territory is suicide, but this one had been going around on its business alone. Already having killed some local hunters, Hank intended to put it down before it could do even more damage.

Considering the attack patterns and bite marks, Hank had been expecting a vampire long lost to the bloodlust, a creature more monster than man. Feral and wild, having discarded its guise of humanity in order to sate its hunger. Those were always easy enough to deal with once you managed to figure out their usual patterns.

What he had gotten instead was a creature far too clever and strong to be a mere, regular vampire. A fucking Midian, right there in his sights.

He should have run at that point. It’s one of the very first things anybody learns in this line of business: cut your losses and flee the moment a Midian enters the scene, because any hunter worth their salt knows that encountering a Midian is but a one way ticket to their demise. 

Instead, Hank brings up his gun and fires off an entire round of silver bullets in its direction.

And now, one battle later, here he lies, battered and broken and very much dying.

 _Hindsight,_ he thinks, _is truly a fucking bitch._

His ears are buzzing with fading adrenaline but he still manages to pick up the sound of near-silent footsteps that make their way towards him. Hank tilts his head, trying to gasp through the gash on his throat as he looks with bleary eyes on the shadowy figure that now towers above him. The full moon hangs above them, moonlight shining through a hole in the ceiling, outlining the wiry, lithe form of the monster that bested him in a silvery highlight.

He watches as the monster kneels down next to him; a stray lock of hair falls down over its face, doing nothing to hide the crimson glow in its rusty red eyes. Hank feels the touch of cool fingertips under his chin as the monster tilts his head up, its own tilting to the side as it studies Hank with a curious expression.

“You are dying,” it says, and it's probably the blood loss that’s making him fucking hysterical because all Hank can do is to snort. _No shit, Sherlock,_ he wants to say in response, but the gash on his throat makes it very hard for him to voice out anything. The corner of the monster’s mouth twitches, as if somehow having heard the words anyway—more than likely, it did. Telepathy, he knows, is child’s play for monsters like them. 

“What is your name?” it asks after another moment’s pause. “I wish to remember it, in commemoration of our fight. You fought well, for a human.”

 _How about ‘Fuck You’._ It’s already bad enough to die because of his own mistake, but hell can freeze over before he lets a monster take fucking _pity_ (or whatever this is) on him. That’s the very last thing Hank fucking needs on whatever he gets as a gravestone. If he gets a gravestone. Who knows if anybody will ever find his body all the way out here. He supposes it really isn’t his problem now.

The monster blinks, almost as if surprised, and the corner of its mouth starts on a slow curl upwards. _You have spirit,_ it says, the words echoing in his head and—yeah, Hank knows he’s pretty much fucked right there and then. He can’t even die in the privacy of his own head; that’s how fucked up this whole thing is.

Hank manages to narrow his eyes somehow, putting all of the anger he can muster into his next response. _Just fucking end me,_ he can’t help but snap because having all the bones in your body broken _while_ dying from your throat being slashed out really fucking sucks and he’d rather just have the pain be over already.

Another seemingly surprised blink from the monster. “You do not fear death,” it says aloud this time, and somehow it almost seems like it’s _awed_ by that. Hank would have found that reaction curious if it wasn’t for the fact that this is the same monster who not too long ago had only been too happy to plunge a dagger through his throat.

Hank doesn’t deign to respond. He’s accepted his fate to die in some hunt or other a long time ago; after all, he’s a man who’s already lived long past his expiration date. There has never been much to his current life since he came into the business and killed the monster who destroyed his old life. Revenge had burned him out by the time he had finished, and all he can do after that is cycle through the days, waiting for the inevitable end.

Maybe that’s why he didn’t run away from this Midian, why he stayed to fight against it instead despite knowing better. Hank knows he’s always been too much of a coward to end his own life, so he throws himself into hunt after hunt to let death come for him instead.

And now, it has.

Perhaps... this isn’t so bad after all.

A touch on his cheek brings Hank back to the present. He blinks slowly, trying to focus, but the blood loss is terminal by this point. His vision dims at the edges, and Hank can feel all of his senses fading.

 _You are very interesting,_ he hears the monster’s voice in his head again. _I like you._

The hand on his cheek drifts down to cup the back of his skull. Hank feels himself being moved, and then he feels a gust of cold, icy breath on his neck that should not exist at the height of summer.

Even in his sluggish, fading mind Hank can put two and two together, and _now_ he feels the fear kicking in as he realizes what is going to happen. _No, don’t—_

Hank doesn’t manage to get far with that. The cold air vanishes and the next thing that Hank is aware of is the sharp pain blooming in his neck, the fire that sears through his skin. He lets out a ragged cry with his dying breath, trying to struggle but failing miserably as the pain overwhelms his entire being.

It doesn’t take long after that before Hank feels himself fade away, and the last thing he hears is the monster’s voice in his head proclaiming _mine_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [don't fear the reaper](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8wBiJMvRA9k).


	2. world without logos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank wakes up and finds out he's not dead. Nobody is happy about this (except Connor).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warnings:** uh. nothing too bad. ~~yet.~~
> 
> connor's kind of an asshole tho, I guess.

“…-nor, you’re not even… -uries old.”

“...ail to… -sue here, Nil-...”

“He’s a… -will be conce… …-alize.”

“...lone. Nobody will… -ine. Don’t worry.”

Voices in the distance, though they are fading in and out of his hearing. A part of him attempts to focus onto what they say but fails miserably as his mind swims with the echoes of the pain of his death.

“—will come in once they… -of this.”

He tries to open his eyes but it hurts. Everything still hurts. His body is burning and he thinks there’s wildfire in his veins, blood boiling underneath his skin and threatening to reduce him to a crisp.

“—em come. They will come to understand.”

Too much noise. Too much pain. Too much emptiness inside of him. He wants, he needs—

He whines.

The voices stop. Quiet footsteps approach where he lies, and familiar, cool fingers grip his jaw and gently pry his mouth open. Something warm presses against his lips, and a voice tells him, _drink_.

He obeys. He laps at the warmth, shivering as it slides down his throat and fills his belly like warm honey. He feels a hand on his head, those cool fingers combing through his hair, petting him as he drinks and takes his fill.

Eventually the warmth pulls away from him. He whines and attempts to rise, wanting more, but a wave of tranquility washes over him and all he can do is sag back down on whatever he’s lying on. The hand on his head continues to pat him, every touch soothing the pain in his entire being.

Distantly, he hears a sigh. “At least make sure he’s trained by then.”

“I plan to. Do not worry.”

The words probably mean something, but he cannot think. Does not want to think beyond the gentle brush of fingers in his hair. He should feel scared, perhaps, yet the fear doesn’t come. All he feels is a sense of comfort and security, the tangible scent of _home_ and _safety_ covering him like a warm blanket on a cold winter’s day.

That feeling of comfort intensifies as those same fingers now brush over his forehead and slowly trail down his jaw. The touch makes him shiver, something in him purring at the attention, and it swells when the fingers touch on something on his neck that makes him moan softly. Faint amusement blooms at the back of his mind, but everything is still too hazy for him to make sense of it all.

 _Sleep,_ the voice says.

Hank tumbles back into the void.

 

* * *

 

Waking up has never felt better, somehow.

Hank doesn’t stop the sigh that escapes him as he turns to his side and snuggles deeper into the sheets that surround him. He’s always been one to laze in bed when he gets the chance to but the mood to do it today feels exceptionally strong. Though he supposes it's not that surprising, when the bed smells exactly like home and the mattress is soft enough to comfort his aching body after all the injuries he had gotten—

Injuries?

Everything is hazy at first, his mind trapped in a fog that doesn’t seem to dissipate, but Hank forces himself to think through the haze, and the rest of the pieces slowly fall into place. 

Injuries from the fight, a fight that happened because he was following a case. A case that had led him to a Midian—a powerful one, who had taken him down in almost no time at all. And then… 

Hank jerks up from bed in a sudden cold sweat. Instinctively a hand flies up to touch his neck but he ends up flinching at the sudden wave of sensation that runs through his body when his fingers brush over… something. It’s… it’s certainly not _unpleasant_ , which only makes everything suddenly a hell of a lot more complicated.

He clenches his jaw and attempts to touch the same spot. The strange, not unpleasant sensation hits him again, giving him an almost instinctive desire to curl back up on the mattress he’s still sitting on. Hank bears through it the best he can as his fingers attempt to trace the marks on his neck that he definitely knows were not there before.

Twin scars on his neck, within the correct range of each other. Lack of a pulse when he presses his fingers down at the spot where he should have felt it beating. His other hand moves to rest over his chest, and his blood turns ice-cold when he feels just how still and silent his own heart is. 

He is—

“Vampire,” he whispers to himself, and the word rings in his ears like a death knell.

Hank had always known that he would die on the job. Expected it, really. Guys like him—especially at his age—were never meant to last this long. Hell, Hank would have been _glad_ to die, even. It would have been a lot easier for him compared to… everything else. 

But now here he is, stuck in a fate far worse than death. The fact that he had been bitten and was brought over to whatever this place is could only mean one thing, and Hank would rather stake himself through the heart first then let it happen to him. He’s fought enough vampires and their fledglings in his life to know what having these marks on him means.

Death always seemed to be a certainty for him in this line of work. The very last thing he had expected or even wanted is for him to become one of the very monsters that he had hunted—the worst one of them all.

He knows what he has to do next. Before they can get a hold of him, could do whatever it is they did to all the other fledglings that he had hunted during his life… he needs to end his own life, properly. Part of him still trembles at the thought of a true death but that part of him is tiny compared to the other parts of him that don’t want to live out a potential eternity tethered to another being who he has nothing but hate and contempt for.

Hank lowers both of his hands, bracing them against the mattress and attempts to push himself off the bed. All he really manages is to lift himself off a little before his body locks up abruptly and Hank finds himself falling back down. He makes a couple more attempts, but the result is the same each time. Every subsequent try also seems to drain him of more energy than before, and by the end of it Hank is so tired he can barely even sit upright.

He stares up at the ceiling, lungs burning as he pants, trying to catch breath that he no longer needs. He doesn’t have to think too hard to figure out the cause of this strange peculiarity and the knowledge of it burns a hole in his mind, just like how the scent that lingers on the sheets and within this room burns through his senses. They feel like physical chains that clasp around his wrists and ankles, keeping him confined to the bed like a child and a prisoner. 

As if that isn’t enough, there is also the _hunger_. 

Hank feels it clawing inside him like a physical being, making his skin cold and clammy as he feels an endless, gaping void in his stomach that aches and wants for sustenance he can no longer eat. His throat burns with a thirst that water can no longer satiate, and his jaw aches as he struggles with his now sharp teeth, canines ( _fangs_ ) aching to _bite_ and _drink_. 

He’s been at this long enough to know what all of this means and he hates it. He hates this so fucking much.

Hank curls his fists hard enough that he can feel his nails digging into his palms, hoping that the pain can distract him from everything else that his body is feeling. It works briefly—a surge of sensation that stings before quickly fading, overwhelmed by the hunger burning within. Hank grits his teeth, grimacing as the points of his teeth now poke at his gums. All of this is just _wrong_ and when the asshole who did this to him comes he’s going to rip their fucking throat out—

Throat. Blood. _Life._

Hank hears himself whining before he even realizes he’s making that sound and forces himself to stop, and as soon as he does the anger boils through him once more. Fuck, he’s so hungry, but feeling the hunger only heightens his rage. He’ll kill the monster that did this to him.

Almost as if responding to his call, Hank hears the sound of footsteps approaching from outside the room he’s trapped in. Footsteps that somehow sound familiar, and there’s a sense of anticipation rising from within that has Hank wanting to recoil in disgust. Even without understanding he simply _knows_ what this sensation is and he hates hates _hates_ it.

It takes a lot more effort than it should have for Hank to turn around and have his back face the door. The footsteps outside come to a stop just as he manages to turn around fully, and the added pause only heightens the anticipation that he feels. For some reason he’s distinctly reminded of Sumo sitting at his doorstep when he returns home, and something inside of him lurches at the thought of his dog. Sumo, who obviously would have no idea what happened to him, who would be waiting back home for an owner who is never going to return.

All Hank can hope is that somebody will come around, eventually.

Either way, there is no more time to think about it. The door to the room swings open and the footsteps come again—only this time he hears them step inside. The moment his—the _vampire_ steps in it feels as if the entire atmosphere of _everything_ changes. All of his senses suddenly stand at alert, informing of the presence of this creature and how very important it should be to him. It’s as if he’s drawn into some magnetic pull from within, a satellite held captive by the orbit of a planet, destined to rot and shrivel if he so much as dares to float away from it.

It’s a horrifying feeling. A terrible sense that tells him he needs this monster to live and he can’t even recoil at that instinct. He’s a prisoner trapped in his own body; he wants to do nothing more than to kill this creature but his hands refuse to move—he wants to flee but the _scent_ keeps him anchored, tethered, chained, and knowing that he’s trapped only deepens the hatred. He hates this monster and what it has done to him.

“Get lost.” The words take considerable effort to say, especially when almost everything else within him is screaming for him to look, _look who’s here, look at your sire, look who’s come for you_. “You should’ve just killed me like I fucking told you to.”

“You don’t want that.” The voice is the same as he remembers, though now there is that added sense of… _something_ that he doesn’t want to name. Hank resolutely attempts to ignore the continuous torrent of conflicting emotions within him as he hears the door closing shut with an almost inaudible _thud_. There goes his one window of escape, if it even fucking counts.

The vampire doesn’t speak, and Hank pointedly keeps his own silence. The desire to turn around rises to an almost clamoring need. Hank squares his jaw and forces himself to stay in place with nothing else but his own sheer willpower. If he is gonna go down then he’d rather go down fighting—not much else left for him at this point besides that.

After a while, it speaks again. “How are you feeling?”

For a moment Hank almost thinks he feels incredulous, but that quickly vanishes into the rage that burns even hotter within him now. How the fuck can it even ask that kind of fucking question after everything it’s done to him? Does it really think that he is going to just forget about all of this and pretend this monster did not just _fucking kill him_? Forget who turned him into the very same monster that it is?

It is anger that makes him turn around and hiss (and he would have been surprised about this if he wasn’t so fucking _angry_ ), his eyes burning with the all the hate and vitriol that he harbors towards this monster who just took fucking everything from him. Anger is all he has when he can’t even lift a fucking finger against it. He hates _him_ so fucking much. Him in his outfit of a dark waistcoat over a light dress shirt that has its sleeves rolled up past his elbows, paired with black pants and polished black leather boots; him with his too-big brown eyes and deceptively sculpted jaw and perfectly gelled hair save for the stray lock that hangs over his forehead. 

He doesn’t mean to, but when Hank makes eye contact with the monster there’s a whisper at the back of his mind. A whisper that is his voice telling him one thing—one name. _Connor._

Somehow Hank knows, without really meaning to, that it's the name of the monster standing before him. He knows it like how he knows the back of his own hand, an instinctive knowledge that has been seared into him because of… of all of this. All this bullshit that’s going on now, and it only makes him all the angrier.

His eyes burn even harder now. “Fuck off,” he finally snarls out, channeling all the anger he can muster and directing it into his words. “I’d feel a lot fucking better if you actually _killed_ me.” Death is preferable to everything in this moment right now—and whatever the creature was going to do next.

Connor doesn’t even so much as bat an eye to anything that Hank says or does. He simply stays silent, his expression bland as he continues to look at Hank as if he is nothing more than a particularly interesting specimen to study. Hank can’t help but feel a little pinned down by that gaze, though he doesn’t show it. Hell could freeze over before he’d show this monster anything.

“Most humans usually would’ve jumped at this chance,” is what Connor says, eventually. “Isn’t death what humans fear the most?” It takes a moment for Hank to notice that the vampire is actually moving now, slowly approaching the bed with slow, unhurried steps, unconcerned at the glare that Hank continues to throw at his direction.

“I’m not most humans.” The words come out through gritted teeth. _Most_ humans, the vampire had said; the keyword here is _most_ , and Hank certainly doesn’t fall into that category. “I kill monsters like you.” His whole body shakes as Hank struggles to hold himself back. God, he hates this thing—this monster so much. He hates how everything about him smells like _home_ and _safety_ even though his mind screams otherwise, every hair on his body standing on edge just from his presence close by. He hates how he feels so _hungry_ , his body aching and growling at him as if he hasn’t eaten in weeks. He wants to reach out and grab the vampire, to wring him by his neck and twist it until it snaps in his hands. He wants it so badly yet he can’t because now somehow his hands refuse to fucking move—more of the vampire’s work.

He hates all of this, everything that’s happening to him now. He keeps on glaring at his murderer as his blood rages with nothing else but the immense hatred that he feels towards the vampire. “Now I’m dead—and you expect me to thank you? Fuck off.”

Connor remains impassively neutral to all the vitriol that Hank throws his way, though he does tilt his head a little to the side. He continues to make his way to the bed, gazed still fixed on Hank, and somehow Hank isn’t sure at all if he’s so much as seen the fucking vampire _blink._

Not that it matters. Nothing about this monster should matter to him.

“Dead is relative,” he responds after another brief pause. “But I did not expect gratitude. I know you’re confused.”

The rage within Hank only grows. “Confused is a funny way to describe fucking furious,” he can’t help but snap.

If there is a response for that, Connor does not say it; he simply comes to a stop right by the bed. Hank, even as trapped as he is, holds his ground, teeth clenched and jaw set as he keeps up his glare. He doesn’t know exactly what the vampire intends to do—but the monster reaching out to take hold of his wrist wouldn't have been his first guess

For a brief moment, Hank is surprised; Connor’s fingers are deceptively soft around his wrist, and he feels something like warmth pulsing from the skin that Connor is touching underneath his fingertips. But that moment quickly passes, and Hank growls as he attempts to pull his wrist away from Connor’s grip. “Don’t touch me.”

Surprisingly enough, Connor seems to listen. He lets go as requested, and Hank brings his hand back close to himself as he glares at the vampire, eyes continuing to burn with hate. His skin itches horribly, a prickling, uncomfortable feeling that twists alongside a visceral need that bubbles inside of him—a need that he instinctively knows as _hunger_. He feels it clawing inside of him still, just as angry and fierce as the rage that burns within him.

Hank maintains a wary stare at Connor, not sure at all what the vampire is playing at, but definitely not letting his guard down either way. Whatever this monster wants to do with him, the last thing he’s going to do is to roll over and let it happen willingly.

Connor finally seems to have finished whatever weird study he’s doing of Hank, because he blinks and stops doing that weird tilt of his head. “I’m not your enemy, Hank,” he says, the tone of his voice sliding into something softer and gentler, as if _Connor_ is the one trying to approach the beast instead of him.

He wants to laugh—to laugh at that idea and the words that have just been said. The very notion that this vampire—his _murderer_ —can think that they’re anything besides enemies is outright ridiculous. Hank opens his mouth, about to say something to that effect, when he notices that Connor has brought one of his own wrists up to his mouth, and his now-extended fangs glint dangerously in the dim lighting of the room.

 _What_ — Hank begins to think, but he doesn’t get far in that line of questioning because in the next moment Connor is biting down into his wrist and all Hank can smell is the rich, iron scent of blood. His hunger surges forward, overwhelming every other thought in his mind, and the itch in his skin multiplies by a hundredfold as something primal claws in his stomach and his gut, incessant and demanding.

His eyes lock onto the stream of red starting to flow down Connor’s wrist, and when that very same wrist is suddenly presented in front of him his vision blurs up as the scent hits him even harder. Hank hears a whine slip out from the back of his throat as his fangs elongate in response to his body’s sudden, clamoring desire to taketake _take_.

 _Drink_. The word echoes through his mind in a voice that’s reminiscent of Connor, but Hank can’t muster any capacity to think about that. He can’t think of anything at all when he sees that tantalizing red liquid swelling up and flowing out from the wound, and his body responds to it like a puppet on strings.

In an instant he’s latching onto Connor’s wrist, his hands grabbing and holding onto his sire like a vice to keep him in place as his lips seal around the wound. His fangs dig into his sire’s smooth skin, causing more blood to spill out and Hank drinks it all greedily. There are no words he can think of that could properly describe the taste of Connor’s blood on his lips; it is like nothing he has ever had before, yet infinitely more delicious than anything else he can name. It reminds him of _life_ , so vibrant and warm and wonderful, and drinking it makes Hank feel so much more alive than he had ever felt when he had still been human.

Somewhere distantly he senses a shift at the back of his mind, that part of him that had given him the name of his sire now responding to something fierce and wanting. He barely gives it any attention, however; he gives nothing else his attention except for the wound he is drinking out of. Because that is all he knows, is nothing but that one single command that his sire had given to him. _Drink_ , he had said, and so Hank obeys.

He drinks, moaning softly at the exquisite taste of it, and when everything is this good it's so easy to ignore that small part of him that screams how disgusting and inhuman all of this is. How could anything be disgusting when it fills the void in his stomach and soothes the burning in his throat? It’s so good he doesn’t want to stop—he feels so content to be able to be here under his sire’s touch and have the privilege to enjoy the blood that has been so generously offered to him.

But all good things always come to an end, and even this is no different. After some time Connor makes a move to pull his wrist away. Hank attempts to follow at first, feeling the beginnings of another whine forming at the back of his throat, but a brush of his sire’s power is all that it takes for him to fall back silent. 

It’s in that silence when clarity slowly comes back to him, after the hunger and thirst finally dies down and becomes something muted and much more manageable. In a way it feels like the flick of a switch; one moment Hank feels like he’s drifting in a haze, and in the very next the haze is gone and he’s left to recoil over what he has just done. Disgust rolls through Hank in a wave as his mind attempts to comprehend it. Fuck, he had just—did he seriously just—

He stares up at Connor who is currently licking at his own wound as his mind still reels. The vampire either doesn’t care or has no clue to the conflict that has arisen in Hank’s mind because all he does once he spots Hank staring at him is to smile ever so slightly and say, “Much better. How do you feel?”

He should be shocked, he thinks. Or at least feel more disgusted about all of this, or… just something else other than the feeling of _satisfaction_ that his stomach is apparently sending to him—his stomach that is now pleased and sated from what he had just consumed. And it's not just his stomach; it's his whole fucking body because there is no reason why looking at Connor should give him a sense of safety instead of revulsion. No reason why he feels _joy_ when he sees the vampire lapping at his own blood and looks at Hank with an expression that he can almost swear is pride.

All of this should disgust him, should make him feel sick and horrible and anything else except _good_. The fact that it's the only thing he can feel quickly brings back the rage that was snuffed out earlier. 

“Fucking disgusting,” he snarls out the words. “How could you—how could you do this to me?” He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want any of this. All of this simply feels like a giant slap in the face to everything he had been doing—he had done in his life. To become one of the very things he had hunted… there is no greater humiliation than this. The shame that he feels only makes his anger burn hotter.

Despite all that, however, Connor remains unflinching in the face of Hank’s anger, taking it all without the slightest shift of expression. “Well, it would be bad form to simply let you starve to death,” the vampire says with that same small smile still on his face. “I just want the best for you, Hank.”

“Bullshit.” The word comes out from him almost immediately, a snap of anger to hide the way a part of him seemingly melts to those words. He knows, logically, that they’re lies—he knows how much vampires like Connor lie through their teeth, how they charm unwilling victims with pretty words and turn them into their slaves as would be, soon. 

But in spite of knowing all of that, of being aware, it still doesn’t stop how easy it is to relax into the calm rush of tranquility that washes over him. Hank almost eases into it until he catches the way his shoulders start to droop. 

No, no, no. Hank shakes his head to shake off the stupor that had almost gotten hold of him and scowls at Connor. He needs to hold onto his anger, to keep him grounded even as he tastes his sire’s blood on his lips and all he wants to do is to lick them clean, to beg for more and cling onto Connor for safety from all these new instincts and emotions that Connor has to be putting into him, somehow. 

God, it’s so hard to stop himself. His mind is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions and he hates it. He wants to kill this monster for what it’s done yet he can’t even raise a hand to him. All he has is talk and the both of them know it. Still, no matter how useless it may be, Hank _has_ to try. “I know how you monsters work. You just wanted another pet, that's all I am to you. Some sideshow to show off to your friends—the big bad monster hunter, turned into the fucking thing he hates.”

Connor arches a slow eyebrow up at the words, and Hank doesn’t want to think too hard about it but he swears that the vampire seems to be _amused_ of all things. “If I wanted a pet, it’d be easy to take anybody from the street,” he says, as casually as one might speak of buying groceries. “The gift of immortality has never been so freely given.”

If Connor had been expecting Hank to feel comforted by those words, then he had another thing coming. “So you just want a sideshow,” he spits out. Anger. He needs to remember the anger. “Good to know.” Except not really. He doesn’t want to know just what it is that this monster has in store for him.

The vampire doesn’t respond to that beyond a distracted hum, reaching out with a hand to graze his fingertips over the bite mark on Hank’s neck. The not-unpleasant sensation comes again—except this time it's also _more_ , strong enough that Hank can’t help but respond with a flinch, mouth opening as his body takes in a sudden (and unnecessary) breath.

“Fuck. I said...” Hank tries to move away from the touch now but once again his body betrays him and his anger rises once again. He hates how suddenly vulnerable he is like this—had it been anyone else he knows for a fact that he could have... well. He certainly could have done _something_ instead of just sitting here and gaping like an idiot.

Connor continues to move his hand, completely uncaring of Hank’s verbal protests, still touching the mark, and it’s horrifying just how much control Hank has lost over his own body. It leans in without his consent, already trusting this monster even though he knows Connor doesn’t deserve an inch of it. But he cannot fight it because his body and his heart has already acknowledged the deep, permanent feeling that Connor is his sire and Hank is his to claim. The sensation of Connor’s fingers over the sensitive mark—the source of their bond and the start of this disgusting entanglement of feelings—is all too overwhelming.

With no way to really run away the best Hank can do is to reach over and grab Connor’s wrist, and even that takes considerable effort on his part. It takes even more effort to force out the next words as a warning rather than the plea that it wants to be. “I said don’t fucking touch me.”

Another hum from Connor. “If that is what you want.” And indeed, Connor does move his hand away from him—along with the hand that Hank has around his wrist. They hang to the side, and Hank would pull his hand away now that he got what he wanted except that Connor suddenly leans in and runs his fucking tongue over the marks on his neck, and an even stronger surge of that wholly not-unpleasant sensation runs through him, compounded with something that feels like _satisfaction_ , and it’s strong enough that Hank can feel a small shiver running down his spine.

Connor pulls away just enough to speak when he’s done, a smile in his voice. “I’m not here to hurt you, Hank.”

The words should be nothing more than empty lies, considering what Connor has already done to him. No, he _knows_ that they’re lies, just as he knows all that this monster wants to do is to lay claim to him, to brainwash him and control him like a doll. The big bad hunter now turned to serve, forced by the bond between sire and fledgling to kill for him, to do his bidding without complaint. 

And the worst part about it all is how _good_ doing all of that would feel. If it is anything like what he’s already experienced Hank can all too easily imagine what it would be like to lose himself in it entirely. To be driven by that kind of mindless contentment and simply let the monster do whatever he wants to him. It wouldn’t be _right_ , and by all means should be disgusting, but… 

“No.”

The response comes out from him far far more weakly than he ever could have expected. He tightens his hold on Connor’s wrist, trying but ultimately failing to ignore how even _touching_ the vampire seems to have an effect on him. From the points where their skin connects Hank can feel his own skin burn in a warm, unnatural way, sending a pleasantness that is almost cloying. It is the same kind of unnatural sensation that burned on his neck when Connor had licked at the bite marks there earlier, the same feeling that continues to keep him in place on this bed, helpless and vulnerable to this monster’s touch. 

Hank has heard many stories about this, about the strength of a vampire’s compulsion and control, but has never truly considered the full extent of its horrible, seductive nature until right now. Only now does he understand the electric feeling of having a vampire lick at the bite that marks him as his murderer’s, of how two spots on his neck can reduce him to this so quickly. How despite the hate and anger and rage that he feels towards this monster, how clearly he can remember being bitten and killed by this very creature, that all he wants right now is to feel Connor’s lips and fangs on his neck again?

His instincts whisper for him to give in, to submit and let this beautiful, perfect monster do whatever he wants. But Hank is nothing else if not a stubborn man, and so he fights against that want, holding on with clenched teeth that he grits out his next words through. “You. Killed. Me.” Hank needs to remember that. He has to remember that.

Connor sighs minutely at that; a soft, quiet sound with the faintest of breath that ghosts over the delicate skin of Hank’s throat, sending another faint shiver down his spine. “I did.” The words come out surprisingly frank, but Hank has no time to dwell on it because Connor has leaned back in and grazes something thin and sharp ( _a fang, your sire’s fang_ , his mind sings) over the mark on his neck. Hank can’t stop the full body shiver that runs through him; just the sensation of it is enough to melt the stubbornness he's been struggling to cling to, cutting through it as easily as a hot knife through butter.

“These are troubling times for you,” he hears Connor say, his voice clear over the whispers that taunt him from the back of his mind. “You’re confused and scared. That’s what I’m here for, Hank. I’ll always be here for you.”

Lies. They’re all lies, empty words and false promises designed to make him bend. That’s what Hank keeps telling himself, a truth that he desperately tries to cling onto even though that grip is quickly slipping. Connor’s words and his actions shouldn’t feel this good, shouldn’t melt him to his core and make him _want_ like he’s never wanted anything before, but they do. Connor’s breath, his tongue, his mouth—and most of all—his _fangs_ light up something primal within him; the same thing that had taken over when Hank fed from him. The same primal need that disgusts Hank to no end in the same breath as it fills his ears with a rush of blood and an overwhelming sense of desire.

But still, he fights. Even as his grip slowly slips Hank does his best to hang on like the fucking tenacious asshole that he is. Even as his body acts against his will and makes him bare his neck to Connor, as it sends a hazy pulse of desire through him for every violent thought he tries to make against this monster who marked him. 

“This is your fault,” he snarls out the words, spitting out all the hate that he can muster. He hates all of this and especially hates himself for how badly his body wants Connor to bite in and claim him over and over again.

And that thought should not be as arousing as it is, either. “Fuck.”

“If you ask really nicely, I may consider.” Connor murmurs those words across his neck, shifting in the same moment. Hank only has the briefest of moments to think _consider what?_ before his neck stings with the sudden, sharp sensation that is Connor biting down.

It should _hurt_ , he thinks. He remembers the shock of pain, remembers the way his skin burned as the last vestiges of his life had been drained out of him by this very same monster. This is exactly how he had _died_ —yet in spite of that knowledge, the pain doesn’t come. Instead all that Hank can feel is a deep, warm, powerful sensation of belonging that feels all too easy to drown in.

There’s no way to stop the moan that comes out from his mouth and Hank’s hatred for this monster (and himself) only grows. He hates Connor and he hates how good the bite makes him feel; hates how futile his own anger is when it’s so easily muffled by the tangible presence of Connor’s desire that runs parallel to his own burgeoning want. It’s all nothing but physical reactions, yet it’s enough to keep him ensnared, and the fact that all it takes is his sire’s bite only burns him all the more.

“Fuck… fuck you,” he manages to growl out the words, even as breathless and forced as they are. There is still fight within him and he will hold on until the bitter, defiant end.

Hank isn’t exactly sure what kind of response he expects from Connor (or if he even is expecting one at all), but one of the last things he expects to happen is a warm current of amusement that flows through his mind, followed by the booming presence of Connor as the vampire speaks into his mind. _One day, if you are particularly good._

Despite himself, Hank shivers once again. As much as he’s heard stories about the vampire’s bite and has hunted many fledglings in his life, it's not as if he’s ever really had a chance to fully understand the workings of what actually happens when you get turned by a vampire and become its fledgling. It’s common knowledge that when you get bitten by a vampire you’re about as good as gone, and no hunter has ever survived a bite and kept their wits about them. There is no way Hank could have ever known that being a vampire’s fledgling meant being completely open to their maker’s influence with no way to properly resist it.

It would have been useful as hell to know about it, certainly, but it's far too late for that now. Hank feels the telltale twitch of his half-hard cock against his thigh and that is the very last thing that he wants. He doesn’t want it at all yet it is impossible to deny how _good_ it all feels. His skin warms with pleasure, and that sensation only grows from the moment Connor speaks in his head. It's so present and overwhelming now it's starting to overpower the anger that he doesn’t want to forget. Hank tries to fight back again, to pile on all the hate that he feels but it's so hard when every little sip of blood that Connor takes from his neck comes with a wave of hazy pleasure that knocks him off-balance.

He hates it all. He tells himself that, holding onto that hatred desperately even as he leans into his sire’s lips, every nerve in his body singing to the satisfaction that he can feel, a wave of wordless praise that washes over him and leaves him light-headed, eyelids slipping to go halfway closed. It’s a miracle he doesn’t make any noise this time when Connor finally pulls away from him, his sire’s tongue warm and welcoming as it licks at the new marks made over the previous bite that had turned him.

Connor hums almost inaudibly, the satisfaction still thrumming within Hank, warm and present and much better than it should ever be. _Do you still not want me to touch you?_ he asks, the question almost cruel in its apparent innocence.

Hank tries to fight through the fog in his mind, attempting to get back clarity while his body floats and sinks in that haze of contentment that surrounds all of his senses. “Why are you doing this?” The question tumbles out from his lips, slurred and soft. Did Connor seriously mean that he would fuck him? Was that what all of this was? Was the vampire actually flirting with him…?

No, no. There’s no way that is the case. Hank pushes himself though that haze, thoughts slowly becoming clearer once again. He can’t let this monster ruin him even more, even if he’s already ruined beyond belief with what he has become. He can’t… but even as he slowly gains back clarity it’s so tempting to simply fall back into that fog. It is so difficult to simply focus, let alone think when everything feels like this. What else can he even do? “Are you… is this some kind of ritual? Is that why?”

He doesn’t get a reply instantly; Connor continues to lick at his neck, running his tongue down to the edge of his bite, and it's all too unnatural just how incredible it feels. Hank is forced to shut his eyes to focus himself away from the sensation but even then it’s still hard. Very hard. 

It’s only after a few more minutes that Connor speaks, the words echoing in his mind. _If you meant the Turning, that was done the moment you drank my blood._ The vampire gives one more lick to his mark before finally pulling away, and finally Hank can open his eyes again. Connor has shifted himself just enough so that he can come face to face with Hank, and there’s a small, pleasant smile on his face that hides the monster that lurks right underneath that devastatingly pretty look.

“I just want to make sure you’re comfortable. Settled in.” He tilts his head after saying that, studying Hank once more. When his eyes flicker downwards towards his crotch Hank can’t help but feel like a schoolkid caught by his teacher, but instead of shame or embarrassment there’s only a rising sense of anticipation that he just barely manages to squash down. Fuck, he hates this so fucking much.

Connor’s gaze slides back up to meet his face again, and the smile widens by a fraction. “You haven’t answered my question,” he adds on, and Hank doesn’t need any reminder to know exactly what _question_ Connor is talking about. Once again his anger boils, except now it’s fighting around his growing arousal for control. Just the memory of Connor’s electric touch on his neck is enough for him to imagine more, to dread as much as he wants all the things that his sire’s hands could do to him. 

It’s so easy to say yes. It’s so _tempting_ to say yes, but Hank ignores it instead. He doesn’t want to give this monster any inch—or at least anything more than he’s already lost. 

His voice is nearly a growl when he responds. “You killed me. Turned me into this. Then stuck me in this fucking room and _trapped_ me until I finally fucking stopped screaming enough to not jump you. If you wanted me to be _comfortable_ , you should’ve just put me outta my fucking misery.” To just have killed him like he wanted when he was dying. But now instead of the death he could have had, he’s stuck in this fucking _un_ life with the very monster who murdered him. Even if this is a hell he deserves, he hates this with every fiber of his being.

“A necessary precaution.” Connor continues to be unresponsive to Hank’s anger, which really only makes him all the angrier. The way he dips his head trying to be all formal and shit only adds on to it. “The newly-turned can be uncontrollable, and it is the sire’s responsibility to get them situated. Doubly so when it is their First.”

 _First._ Hank instantly recalls the term from the stories he’s heard and the stuff he’s read up on. That means… Jesus Christ, did this mean that he was the first Connor turned? That is… fuck, it almost makes him feel special, somehow, and isn’t that the biggest fucking joke of the century -- to even think that something as horrible as this could be _special_. If he didn’t already hate himself, he certainly would’ve at this point.

Connor straightens his head back up, gaze set back on Hank with that smile still on his face. “Death comes to us all eventually, and I am sure Her cradle will be soothing.” His lips finally twitch then, shifting by the smallest of fractions that would’ve been impossible to notice if Hank hadn’t been looking at it. “But until then—you belong to me, Hank Anderson.”

The atmosphere shifts then, an oppression that he hadn’t been aware of changing into something—warmer. Soothing. It drapes around Hank like a blanket, wrapping him in a feeling of security that feels almost like his own but he knows isn’t. None of these sudden feelings that he’s having are real, from the ache of wanting Connor’s touch to the warmth simmering inside at knowing how possessive this vampire is about him. None of these feelings are his own; it all stems from the thing, this monster that he’s become against his will. But—

But.

It’d be a lie to say he doesn’t want it. The last decade of his life had been cold and miserable and lonely and now he’s dead on top of it all. Dead and stuck in an unlife he never wanted, with this monster he instinctively knows he can never escape from. These warm sensations of security and safety, fake as they are, threaten to overwhelm him still because of how much part of him aches for it. He wants it, but he knows better than to let it happen, because they’re not his and they’re not _real_ no matter how good it feels.

“I never asked for this,” he hisses out the words, forcing them though the false pleasure that swims in his head. “Do you seriously not get that?” No matter how good Connor tries to make this it doesn’t matter because he knows it’s not real. It’ll never be real.

All Hank gets is a slow blink from Connor. “It’s alright if you don’t believe it right now,” he says, “We can work on that, together.” Something shifts again, and Hank feels that warm sensation curling around him like a physical presence, continuing to keep him feeling like he’s blanketed and safe.

It is a nice feeling, no doubt, but things like these have long become foreign and other for him—a man who’s spent at least half his life hunting monsters and living in danger almost every day. Sure, he had been happy once, long ago, but that had been before he lost his family and his friends to monsters like Connor. Monsters like what he has become.

“You should have left me.” Should have killed him, left him to bleed out and die at where they had met. That had been the ending somebody like him deserved, but even that has been denied. Now, instead, he is here with this man and monster who says he belongs to him—and at his core Hank knows that it is the truth. And as much as the thought makes him sick, it only does so mentally. Physically all he wants to do is to stop arguing and let his sire lay his claim. It’d be a lie to say that this whole thing isn’t fucking him up.

He shifts his gaze so that he can look straight at Connor and asks one of the many questions that has been bubbling within him since waking up. “Why me? Why… why any of this?” If it wasn’t for some weird vampire ritual, then why go through all this extent? 

Connor tilts his head once more, blinking again, then makes what seems to be the smallest of frowns. Hank doesn’t exactly know what to label the look, but for some reason the closest word he can think of is _confused_. 

“Because I chose to,” is what the vampire says, as if those four words were all the answers that Hank needed to hear. It’s so… unexpected that Hank’s confusion wins out his anger, for the moment. 

That confusion only grows when Connor moves to pull his hand away from Hank’s grip. Hank can’t do anything but let it happen, and he drops his arm back down onto the mattress as he continues to stare at Connor, watching as the vampire brings that same hand from before close to his face. One corner of the side of the smile on Connor’s face twitches ever so slightly upward as Connor ghosts his fingers over Hank’s cheek; close enough to feel, but not touch. Just as he had requested, Hank remembers. In fact, he realizes with a jolt, that Connor hasn’t touched him at all since Hank asked him not to. And knowing that now is… very odd.

If Connor has noticed his confusion, he makes no word of it. “You won’t be alone ever again, Hank,” is what he says instead, words of a promise that doesn’t line up with what vampires should be at all.

Hank frowns, attempting to make sense of it. Connor really isn’t giving him anything to work with, but he can’t say he’s entirely surprised. Connor is an immortal creature who drinks blood and has the power to make people submit to his will. It's clear enough that Connor could have brainwashed him by this point, so the fact that he’s still… well, himself is something else to question. For some reason Connor is _letting_ him retain his mind, saying things like being there for him and trying to make him feel these feelings of being warm and safe and happy. It doesn’t make sense at all and the mystery of it confuses Hank further. Was it because he is Connor’s First? Because he… _chose_ to, like he said?

Fuck, nothing's making sense now.

“So… what does that mean?” he makes himself ask. “You always gonna do this, then? Make me feel like this?” Hank tries to sound angry but the confusion has made it flicker, and in its place is the fear. The idea of spending of an eternity with this monster is nothing short of terrifying, but—it’s not as if there is anything else he can do. Should he just accept it, then? Would it be better than resisting, if it meant enjoying all the perks that Connor is trying to offer?

He glares at Connor once again, although now the anger doesn’t burn as strongly as before, and the effect is lessened further when he leans into Connor’s almost-touch. He can’t kill Connor as he is right now, he knows this for a fact, but maybe… he can still fight in his own way, somehow. 

Connor wanted to touch him earlier, didn’t he? Maybe… he could use that to his advantage. “I’ll let you touch me if you stop it with this fake-feeling stuff,” he attempts to bargain, even though he knows he’s at a huge disadvantage. If Connor doesn’t want to listen to him then he’s got nothing else he can do. “All the stuff you’re making me feel right now—it’s you, yeah?”

Everything suddenly comes to an abrupt stop at that point. Connor blinks, somehow looking surprised at the request, and Hank holds his breath even though he knows he no longer has to breathe. It’s sink or swim with however Connor decides to respond, and the odds are looking less and less in his favor.

A second passes. Then two. And then—

Connor, to his surprise, actually _listens_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [world without logos](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HOD2DVq1r60).
> 
> Big, special thanks to both **glymr** and **jj** for beta-ing these chapters and catching my million and one errors lmao. Also shoutout to the outsiders twitter group chat for cheering me on while I pummelled out these beginning chapters. You guys know who you are.
> 
> I’m gonna be shouting about this dumb AU a lot, so feel free to follow me **@tasogareika** on Twitter for those shoutings if you wanna, along with my many reblogs of Hankcon stuff. Next chapter is almost done, so expect an update to come in about two weeks time. Things are already gonna get spicy from there, so stay tuned. :D


	3. left foot trapped in a sensual seduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bargains and temptations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** * _furiously points to dubcon and extreme dub con tag_ * also clear power imbalances (lol) and some degree of mind control/manipulation on Hank (lol x2)
> 
> This is where the (weird) shit starts happening, folks. Just a reminder that if stuff like this isn't going to be up your alley, feel free to stop reading this fic. I totally get it and your own comfort is far more important than two fictional characters having questionable sexy times. For those who stick around from this point on, know that I appreciate every little bit of support that comes this way.
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy this chapter. :)

“I don’t want you to be sad.”

Hank blinks at the words and how strangely earnest they seem to sound. Distantly he registers the fact that Connor is already touching his cheek, but those realizations are secondary to the surprise that he is still attempting to process. Without Connor’s… whatever it is on him (influence? power? both?) there’s a clarity in his mind now that had not been there before. And yet with this clarity comes even more confusion.

The bargain had been a desperate one—one where he barely had a leg to stand on, even. In his mind all Hank can see are the countless ways where Connor could have ignored him, rejected him, toyed with him before using the full force of his powers to wipe out any remaining thoughts in Hank’s mind. Because that’s the fate of anybody who gets bitten by a vampire and turned—fought them, even. When a human gets bitten they’re as good as gone, and it's always a matter of time before they lose all sense of self to the monsters who had claimed them.

But here he is right now, stupefied only because of his own shock and nothing else. And he knows it is just him because he had _felt_ the way Connor had withdrawn from his mind, that tangible yet intangible blanket of feeling and sensation lifting up from him like a veil. As nice and good Connor’s… _influence_ had been there was still an undeniable sense of oppression underneath it all, his sense of self dwarfed by the sheer power of the vampire that turned him. And now all of that is gone and it's definitely—well. Hank certainly has never appreciated the sanctity of his own mind more than he is right now.

He lets out a shuddering breath, then takes in a nice, deep breath and releases it out as a sigh. Relief washes over him as he does so, and Hank simply takes a second to appreciate this moment for what he can have. As unexpected and surprising this may be, he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth—at least, for now. Until then he can relish in this moment and actually feel… human, even though he knows he isn’t anymore. He can never be human and should get used to that reality, especially considering the fact that he had actually drank blood not too long ago.

And fuck if that isn’t a hell of a sobering thought. Hank closes his eyes briefly, in order to try and straighten out his thoughts and not because Connor is now moving his hand back to rest at the back of his neck, gently cupping the base of his skull. 

“If you truly don’t want it, then I won’t do it. You’ll always have a choice with me when I can give it to you.” Connor’s words this time are as gentle as the way the vampire touches him, with some sort of strange fondness that Hank cannot understand where it stems from. It is incredibly confusing, to put it mildly.

Hank forces his eyes back open to look at Connor. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” Serious about… whatever he’s doing. _Not_ brainwashing him? Hank certainly appreciates the hell out of _that_ , but the reason of _why_ continues to be one giant mystery. Even he knows that vampires never listen to the demands of their fledglings—if they ever had a chance to demand anything in the first place. It just seems entirely impossible to imagine that out of all the vampires that he could have been bitten by, it is one that actually fucking listens for some goddamned reason. Even now his mind is still struggling with that concept.

Connor tilts his head at the question. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious for some reason. He rubs his thumb across his hairline at the back of his neck while asking said question and Hank can’t stop himself from leaning into it. Even without Connor’s influence the vampire’s touch on him makes his skin warm and alive, and Hank doesn’t exactly have the willpower to ask Connor to stop. His mind throws a few choice words at him ( _touch starved, lonely, desperate_ ) but Hank can easily ignore those because at least those are his own thoughts.

“Uh, because you _killed_ me. And I tried to kill you. I would’ve thought you turned me so you could… I dunno, show off to your other vampire friends how you turned a big bad monster hunter into your thrall or fledgling or whatever.” It’s definitely a little strange to be talking about this when it is technically his murderer who is now touching and stroking his face but then everything about tonight has been surreal enough as it is. Even now it's hard to believe that this is all real. Deep inside him Hank feels that urge to trust Connor with everything, but logic manages to overwrite that part of him. No matter what, Connor still is the monster who killed him.

Connor’s response, admittedly, is somewhat of a surprise. “I don’t exactly have ‘friends’, Hank,” he says with an arched eyebrow and a sudden gleam of mirth in his eyes. Amusement creeps onto his features, as if Connor is laughing at some personal, private joke to himself. “I turned you because I wanted you, that’s all.”

And that’s—well. It definitely more than a little strange to actually be _wanted_ , and there’s no way to ignore the pleasant chill that runs down his spine at that. He wants to say that the reaction is because of Connor’s influence and his touch but he knows it's a bit more than that. It’s also desperation that drives him, the pang of loneliness bad enough that his mind can consider the affections of a _vampire_ to not be completely disgusting. It’s a little concerning if he has to be honest about it; as much as he knows he is a little fucked up now, there is also the fact that Connor is probably, like, a few hundred years old at very least. Midians were at least around that age range from what he remembers.

Though he supposes that right now, none of those are important. Hank frowns, not entirely sure what to make of the fact that Connor is supposedly alone. “Thought you guys were all about ‘community’ and shit.” That had always been the golden rule for vampire hunting—pick them out one by one, and never take them as a group. The moment those bastards came in together you were about as good as dead.

Connor hums in return, as if considering his words. “I suppose technically speaking, I am part of the ‘community’ here, if only because my brother elects to stay.”

A brother? Hank blinks at this new information. So Connor has a brother—are they actually related, or is it some kind of vampire thing? He wonders about it for a moment, but his curiosity isn’t piqued enough to ask. Considering the fact that Connor is his murderer, Hank isn’t going to get too personal with him any time soon, despite… all of this. Whatever Connor is trying to do. If it is to get on his good side somehow, then well. Maybe he can make use of that, too.

He hardens his gaze at Connor. “You’re gonna have to explain _a lot_ of this shit to me if you really wanna make nice.” He has no idea what Connor’s real end goal may be here, but fuck if Hank is just going to roll over just because Connor decided to not… brainwash him. It is a fairly big point in his favor, but it isn’t going to absolve him of actually being his killer.

Another hum from Connor. “Of course I will, Hank. Teaching the ways of the Midian is part of my duty to you.”

Right, well. Okay. There is that then, he supposes. Connor is looking at him with the clear expectation of being asked a question, so Hank scrambles his mind to try and find something to ask. “So, uh, the whole… thing about me ‘feeding’ off of you. Is that normal? I always thought that vampires just ate people, not each other.” Was that technically considered cannibalism? Christ, he hopes that isn’t the case; the last thing he wants to add is being a fucking cannibal to the growing list of problems he already has since waking up in this place.

Connor slowly tilts his head the other way, looking as if he’s considering something. After a moment he reaches down with his free hand and takes one of Hank’s hands into his own. Like this now it's far too easy to see the difference between them—Hank’s own large, grizzled hand in Connor’s slender, almost delicate one.

“With humans, feeding is a necessity for our survival. Between ourselves, it is a far more intimate act.” Hank watches as Connor brings his hand up to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of it. A sliver of warmth worms through his arm at the gesture, spreading to the rest of his body, and even that little bit of warmth feels far too good. “Usually it’s done between mates—or in our case, a sire and their progeny. In either case, blood is what binds us together; the blood, as well as the bite.”

Connor turns Hank’s hand around at those words, leaving his palm facing up. In the next second Connor is leaning in, lips parted to expose one extended fang that he gently grazes across the point where his pulse would have been beating back when he was still alive, and Hank can’t stop the shiver that runs through him. If he were an even weaker man, he probably would make some kind of embarrassing noise at this point.

Hank certainly doesn’t want to think about that possibility. “Fuck… so that’s supposed to feel good?” It feels _too_ good, even, if he had anything to say about it. It’s hard to properly explain the feeling or know the why behind it, but he can all too easily feel Connor’s fang on his skin with an inhuman precision. It’s as if all of his senses are drawn to that single point, waiting for the moment when Connor decides to bite down. The worst part of it all is that he _wants_ Connor to bite down, which is just… it definitely can not be normal.

For better or for worse, Connor doesn’t stay there for long; he only lingers for a little while more before pulling away. His hand remains there, however, and even without the threat (reward?) of being bitten Connor continues to caress the skin over his silent pulse with his thumb.

“Yes, generally speaking. After all, nobody likes pain.” Connor flashes him a brief, wry smile. “Some of us can hone it further and make it about as addictive as the most potent of your human drugs.”

Connor doesn’t elaborate further on that, but he doesn’t really need to, anyway. Hank wants to say he feels alarmed but he really, really doesn’t. Connor constantly touching him like this is… more calming than he can bring himself to admit. Not in the same way as Connor’s influence had, but it's close enough, and the physicality of it is something he appreciates much more.

Also, just… the way Connor seems to hold and touch him with such _admiration_ is something Hank can’t get over. Is Connor seriously so fascinated with him? And if not, then why go out of his way to fake this, especially when he stopped with all the brainwashing crap just because Hank _asked_ him to?

He just can’t understand it. If Connor is trying some kind of long con it makes even less sense, even if in a way he supposes its already working. Even without the influence having its sway over him his body still reacts to the mere presence of Connor. It’s something he’s going to have to get used to and he hates that, but he can tell there’s no way to resist it. Connor just somehow… soothes him. Even with the all the threat he presents to Hank and all the things he’s done to him, Hank simply wants to melt into his touch.

This dichotomy between his mind and body is frustrating as hell. The fact that Connor straight up admitted the addictive properties of his bite only makes it worse. “You shouldn’t sound so smug about making somebody addicted to this. You all… vampires are already addicted to blood. If your plan is to make me addicted to _you_ , then that’s pretty fucked up.” Even if some part of him already can’t help but think how good that might be. But he knows better than that.

Apparently Connor finds some form of amusement is Hank’s words, because the vampire is chuckling—it's a small, quiet thing, but it is there. “It would be a lie if I said that the thought had not occurred to me, but doing that to you would be about as uninspiring as what everyone else does.” Mirth gleams in his brown eyes once more. “I’m far from the only one with such an ability.”

Hank doesn’t stop the mild snort of disbelief that he lets out in response. Maybe he should be relieved that Connor claims he doesn’t intend to brainwash him and turn him into some kind of vampire druggie, but it’s not like he has any real reason to believe it. No reason except for the fact that Connor had stopped using his _influence_ on him just because he had asked. It’s a chilling thought to wonder the full extent of what the other vampires do, then—it’s what he had expected, even, when Connor had dug those fangs of his into his neck, back then and earlier.

It’s not a secret what vampires do. They make fledglings to serve them. They make them _dependent_ and needy and they wipe their identities from them. Hank's been lucky. Despite his long years as a hunter, no one he knew was ever turned. But he's killed plenty that he later learned were friends of friends. There had been nothing left of their former selves by the time Hank got to them

Still, just because it hasn't happened yet doesn't mean it won't. Perhaps it's only a matter of time. But it is hard to keep up that suspicion when Connor is now combing fingers through his hair, touching and toying with him in a way that seems to imply that he actually _cares_ about him. Fuck, it’s hard not to give in.

Connor makes a thoughtful sound above him, as if he’s feeling Hank’s disbelief (probably _is_ , the bastard) and is attempting to respond to it. “A necessity to live isn’t an addiction, Hank. Would you have described the necessity to drink water an addiction?”

It’s not hard to see the point that Connor is trying to make, but still. “I’ve never _attacked_ people if I didn’t have water,” he responds, trying to argue back his point. Humans could do shit out of desperation, sure, but they sure as hell don’t go killing just because they’re thirsty.

Connor, to his complete lack of surprise, has a difference in opinion about it. “Only because human biology is different. What we do is no different from a wolf that hunts in order to sate their hunger.”

“Except humans aren’t animals.” Hank sighs after those words. He’s always known that a vampire’s hunger is a terrible thing, but it is only until actually becoming one when he finally realizes how bad it actually is. How the hell could he trust himself or even Connor if the need to feed is so desperate? He doesn’t know exactly how bad Connor can get, but with the power he clearly wields Hank is pretty sure it wouldn’t end well.

It is a fact that he has to accept—the fact that they’re predators now. Monsters. If Hank wasn’t already so used to hating himself, that thought might’ve actually made him throw up.

This time it is Connor who sighs. “If it comforts you, there is an arrangement with the city nearby to get a share of their blood bags. There will not be a need for either of us to hunt.”

An arrangement… with the city? Knowing shit like this would have been chilling news to Hank had he still been a hunter. A human. The idea that the vampires had sunk their fangs in so deeply into such a large human population should be a hell of a troubling things, but right now all he can really feel is _relief_. Relief that he doesn’t have to be forced to be a killer, even though he’s already killed countless monsters throughout his life. But it's one thing to kill monsters who could end you in one well-aimed hit. It’s another thing entirely to kill somebody entirely defenseless.

Maybe Connor did hear all of that, but Hank feels like it's important to voice it out anyway, and so he does. “I’d rather not become a killer.”

Connor stays silent instead of responding and Hank can’t help but wonder for a moment if his response has struck something wrong within the vampire. He did just kind of… well, he probably should have known better than to try and go against the vampire who turned him. At least if this leads to his death, Hank definitely can’t find it in himself to complain.

The seconds pass and still Connor continues to remain silent, and the tension inside of Hank rises to something almost unbearable. If Connor is mad and wants to strike him down for speaking up against him then he had better just do it instead of staying like this—

His thoughts still and come to a stop when Connor does the complete opposite of what he expects. Rather than strike him instead Connor leans in and fucking _nuzzles_ the top of his head. Hank feels a warmth trail down his spine, further fueled by the sigh that Connor lets out into his hair, and it feels good enough that his body simply leans into it.

“You will have to, eventually,” Connor finally says, and for some reason Hank swears that he almost sounds _sorry_ about it. “Especially since you are with me.”

Despite the soft words and gentle touches there is a finality to his tone that Hank does not like. It's that same dichotomy between his mind and body again, where his mind recoils at the inhumanity of his new life while his body leans into the physical comfort that his sire gives. As it is all he can settle with is to make a sound at the back of his throat; something disagreeable and displeased, and there is almost a growl to his voice when he speaks. “You can’t fucking make me.”

He says those words even if instinctively, he knows that it's not true. But he wants to believe it, to believe that he actually has some control over the mess his life has become now, because otherwise the thought of his undead existence being _this_ is too much to bear.

Connor hums, as if in understanding, his hand still stroking through his hair. It’s like Connor is trying to comfort him, somehow, and the worst part of it all is that it's working on him. Hank can’t stop the way he melts under his sire’s careful attention, reaching out to grab Connor’s wrist when it's close enough to him. He tries to muster any kind of will in his touch but all he can do is to tug at his sire’s wrist uselessly like he’s nothing more than a child.

“Don’t,” he starts, and fuck, even his _voice_ is pleading now. “Don’t make me.”

Connor sighs once more, an almost wistful sound. “I will not force your hand,” he says, and Hank can almost believe it to be true. “But there will come a time when you may be asked directly, and there are limits to how much I can protect you then.”

Finally stopping his caressing of Hank’s other wrist, Connor lets go of it and shifts his hand back to cradle the back of Hank’s head once more. Hank shivers again when he feels Connor’s fingers rubs at the skin there, and the scars on his neck ache when his body realizes how close his sire’s touch is to where he had been bitten.

“Still,” Connor speaks again, his voice almost a soothing balm to the distress that still runs inside of Hank. “All of this will be a while yet, so do not worry. I will be with you at every step of the way.”

Hank feels Connor place another kiss to the top of his head and it feels sinfully good. Everything now—it goes against all the things that he’s ever fought for as a human. He may no longer be human but the last thing that Hank wants is to also lose his humanity—to truly become a monster. If he is going to be stuck here, with this vampire—if death truly isn’t an option, then the least he can do is to delay the inevitable.

Try as he might Hank can’t deny the truth—the truth that he is a monster now, just as Connor, his sire, is also a monster. A vampire. And he’s heard enough stories about all the ridiculous pacts and agreements that vampires love to bind themselves to. No doubt he, too, will be dragged into some of those eventually if he is stuck with Connor.

Once again he remembers the fledglings that he had hunted, their mindless drive and utter lack of self. Maybe he’s lucky Connor has actually let him speak his mind, and he should be grateful about it. Or maybe that’s actually a thought coming from Connor’s influence over him and it's not actually his. There’s no real way to ever be sure. All he really knows right now is that Connor’s touch feels _good_ , that despite being held in the arms of the very the monster who killed him, Hank feels no danger.

He shuts his eyes and closes the small distance between them, forehead pressing onto the fabric of the dark waistcoat that Connor is wearing. “Promise me,” he breathes out the words, trying and failing to hide the way his voice breaks around that plea. “Promise me you won’t make me kill anyone.”

There’s yet another pause, but at least this one does not last as long. Connor hums again and strokes down the length of Hank’s hair one more time before he responds. “I promise, by our blood.”

Hank finds himself caught unaware by the surge of pleasure that runs through him, making him shudder in Connor’s arms. _Our blood_ , Connor had said, and Hank sees now that there’s a weight to those words. But more than that, the idea that he now shares blood with the monster who killed him is more than a little sickening, but it explains the pull that he’s been feeling towards Connor this whole time, the voice at the back of his head that he can’t ever fully ignore.

He feels it right now, too, a constant presence lurking in the recesses of his mind even though Connor’s influence is not touching him. Hank tries to push at it, reaching out in his own clumsy way, testing the waters to try and connect even though it's probably a bad idea. But Hank is neither young nor stupid and he knows there is no way to win this curse that now claims him. The only thing he can do is try to work with it.

When he feels Connor pulling away from him Hank knows that he’s managed to make that connection. He opens his eyes and sees that Connor has shifted just enough to look at his face from above. Their gazes meet, and Hank feels a sensation that is not unlike having his hand held and then gently tugged over.

 _I am always here for you, Hank._ He feels that phantom hand of his being squeezed at that; it’s a pleasant feeling, soon made more by the graze of Connor’s fingers on the mark at his neck. That simple touch is enough to send another rush of heat through his body, intensifying the sensations that he already feels. Hank can’t stop himself from shivering again—it’s ridiculous just how much he’s reacting to this, yet he can’t find it in himself to ask Connor to stop. Because he doesn’t want Connor to stop, not really.

Still, the fact that all of this is _good_ is also what continues to rouse his suspicion. There’s no way he can simply trust Connor just because of some touching and a few sweet words—even as much as part of him wants to. “How can I… how can you expect me to trust you? I already told you that I don’t want this.”

One corner of Connor’s lips curls upwards. “I don’t expect you to trust me immediately,” he says, somehow with what seems like fondness in his voice. Which is totally not what Hank had expected at all, and yet again it only raises more questions on what exactly Connor is trying to do.

If anything, at least Hank can appreciate Connor’s somewhat realistic expectations on this particular matter. “Good,” he mutters out. At least now Connor knows that he’s not going to roll over for him just because of a few choice words and actions.

Connor’s amusement seemingly grows, and he makes another soft, pleased sound as his fingers slowly trace the outline of his bite on Hank’s neck. He feels a shiver from deep inside of him as he feels Connor’s possessive thrill sweep through the connection that they have. It’s still weird to feel that, but that instinctive part of him understands just how deeply he belongs to Connor now and the bond that they share. Everything that Connor does just feels all so natural. Safe. Even when Connor’s hands and lips on his skin should feel cold and foreign they do the exact opposite and fill him with warmth.

Hank feels that warmth rising in him again when Connor plants another kiss on his forehead. _Even so, you are already a part of me, and I do not intend to have barriers between us. Everything that I have, you do as well._ God, even his voice is unnatural with how _right_ it is in his mind, like a balm on the hunger and pain that had previously been there. There’s no way to stop himself from leaning into the touch even if he wanted to.

As he leans in, his mind whirls with what Connor had just said to him, trying to make sense of it all. “I… look, I dunno how I feel about this whole ‘our blood’ thing and whatever this is, but. What does ‘everything’ mean? You’re just gonna give me a blank check here?”

Connor tilts his head once more at the question. “You are my progeny,” he says at first, as if that alone is enough to explain everything. Hank almost wants to snap for Connor to continue, and fortunately he does before Hank can actually do that. “Within our kind, to be one progeny’s is to represent them—especially so when they are their sire’s First. You hold the same status and prestige as I do, and anything you do will in turn be indicative as a representation of me. You are, in every sense, an extension of myself.”

He touches the mark at his neck once more, and this time Hank doesn’t (want to) suppress the pleasure that swells through him. Try as he might, by this point there’s really no way that Hank can hold onto that anger of his anymore. This is his life now and he has to accept it. Without the anger to drive him Hank doesn’t really have that impulse any more to find a stake and end his life—he’s never had the courage to do that as a human, much less now that he’s not even one. And that just… leaves him stuck, in this limbo.

Although… if being stuck is having a hot guy like Connor who apparently can’t keep his hands to himself, who _owns_ him and talks in his head like nobody’s business? Well, it may be fucking weird but it’s not as if he ever had much of a life at all when he had been human.

Before all of this, his whole life simply had been saving people and hunting monsters. Maybe… just maybe, he can do the same here, still, somehow. He doesn’t know exactly what kind of rank or prestige that Connor has, but considering his strength it had to be worth _something_ at the very least. Maybe he could make use of that.

Hank forces a smirk on his face, trying for the moment to not be as angry about this whole situation (which, when you’re _dead_ , is harder than one might expect). As long as he can do _something_ here, it will be good enough for him. And if that also has the extra bonus of Connor continuing to touch him like this, then he can’t exactly find it in himself to complain. The way his mark sings under his sire’s hands is far too good to ignore. “So, in other words, I better not fuck this up for you, huh?”

The remark earns Hank a snort of all things, and when he speaks he somehow sounds entirely too amused about it all. “Whatever you do probably won’t be any worse than what I do on a daily basis. Niles never fails to reprimand me when he has the time for it.”

It takes more than a few moments for Hank to figure out who is this ‘Niles’ person that Connor is talking about. “Your brother, right?” Connor did mention having one earlier, after all.

Connor hums, confirming Hank’s guess, then moves to raise his hand with the wrist that Hank is still holding onto. He shifts it around so that he’s the one who’s now holding Hank’s wrist instead, then pauses to consider Hank for a moment before suddenly sliding onto his lap. Hank jerks back in surprise but the grip Connor has on his wrist tightens ever so slightly, and Hank is forced to remain in place. Not that it’s all that hard once the surprise passes and he’s had a moment to actually take in the idea of Connor in his lap. They’re closer than they have ever been now this whole time, and at this distance the scent of his sire fills his senses immediately. Connor’s smell somehow matches his own but then again he supposes that only makes sense. They share blood now, as Connor had said. It only stands to reason that Hank _should_ feel like himself. Like home.

He watches as Connor brings his wrist close to his lips, close enough that he can feel the rush of cool air over his skin when Connor murmurs just loud enough for Hank to hear. “There is not much I will not let you do.” He runs his tongue over his silent pulse after those words, fingers caressing the mark on his neck at the same time. The combined sensations make Hank shiver again as the something more than pleasure begins to take root within him.

With his mouth occupied, Connor’s next words to Hank are in his head again, and it really shouldn’t be fair at how even this makes him feel good. _And do at least trust me when I say that those denials will be more for your benefit than mine. It would be troublesome if I was asked to discipline you so soon._

Hank tries to focus on the words, really, but it’s hard when Connor continues to lick his wrist and touch his neck. He may no longer have a pulse but he can feel every touch that his sire gives him with extreme clarity. The two of those things together brings out that deep desire from inside him—that part of him that wants to _serve_ Connor; to be used and claimed by him over and over again. That desire is… getting harder and harder to deny.

He manages though, somehow, pushing through the pleasure to focus back on what Connor is saying since it seems to be fairly important. “What kind of ‘discipline’ are they talking about here?”

Connor hums again, tilting his head and shifting the position of Hank’s hand so that he can start to press a series of kisses down from his wrist. _It depends on the severity of the transgression, and a degree of personal preference. The are always the basics, of course—whips and blades and other such medieval forms of torture._

He reaches the middle of Hank’s palm and lingers there for a moment as he continues to finger his bite mark at Hank’s neck. With all the attention he’s getting it’s hard to not feel a little light-headed, his breath stuttering each time Connor rubs his fingers over the scars there. He should say something, but it feels so good. It feels way too fucking good.

Hank can only watch hazily as Connor continues to kiss downwards, clearing his palm and now going down his fingers. _And there are those who opt to compel their fledglings to self-harm, though those are rare. At least, in public._ Connor gets to his fingertips and starts to nip on them with just the barest hint of pressure—and just that alone is enough to almost cause Hank to moan. He just barely manages to swallow it down instead, shifting his own expression to a grimace.

“Sorry I asked.” God, it really should gross him out to hear everything that Connor is saying but it's so hard to actually pay attention when Connor is doing all these things. Just how far has he already fallen in this night alone that he already wants nothing more than for Connor to sink his fangs into him and taste him again? The words are right there on the tip of his tongue, begging to be spoken, but Hank pushes down that desire. He has to focus.

He looks at Connor and tries to ignore the way his whole body heats up to the sight of Connor pressing his lips against the pads of his fingertips. “How are you going to punish me?”

 _I haven’t thought about it._ The answer is almost instantaneous from Connor this time. _Unless, of course, you want it._

Connor raises his head at this point, tilting his gaze so that it now settles directly on Hank. Hank, who can only stare back and shiver under Connor’s intense gaze, his own slowly sliding downwards to his sire’s lips when Connor takes in his index finger into his mouth.

 _Do you want me to punish you, Hank?_ he asks, and then proceeds to _suck_.

Hank is forced to bite down on his lip before he actually does moan, and shivers when he sees Connor’s nostrils flaring when he does that. “Nnn—not really.” Fuck, how the hell is he supposed to make a solid response when Connor is doing all of this to him? Even if this is probably better than any punishment that can happen; Hank isn’t stupid, after all. He knows that vampires can survive an incredible amount of torture. He’s been around that particular circuit during his younger, more hot-headed days.

Focus, he reminds himself. He needs to keep his fucking focus. Even if Connor’s mouth is hot and warm and far too good for it to be real.

He grits his teeth and forces out is response. “Being a fucking vampire is enough punishment for me.”

Connor makes a thoughtful sound around his finger. _A fair point,_ he concedes, before closing his eyes and sucking harder on Hank’s finger, slowly nudging for another to join in. Hank can only oblige, panting now when he feels Connor’s tongue sliding around two of his fingers instead.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, unable to help himself. God, Connor is so good. His sire is so good and there’s no way to keep his head on straight when his mouth and tongue are so hot and perfect. He wants it so fucking badly but… but…

 _You have been very good,_ Connor whispers sweetly to him, and Hank feels himself melting under the praise. _And I believe in rewarding good behaviour._ He feels the brush of Connor’s fingers against his bite mark again, and this time when Connor looks at him there is something dark and possessive in his gaze. _What do you want, Hank? Tell me. I want to hear it._

He wants to hear it. Connor, his sire wants to hear it. The knowledge of that rings in Hank’s mind and its enough to finally make him moan. The way his sire is lavishing him with so much attention makes him ache for more, and the possessiveness in his voice sparks that deep desire to submit—a desire he can’t hold back any more.

He shouldn’t submit. That’s always the worst thing to do with a vampire. But that had been when he was human and now he’s no longer human. And furthermore, he can sense how much Connor wants him, too. At least that, if anything, feels real enough to him.

“I know you want this,” he growls out, trying and failing to not make his words sound like a plea. “Just fucking take me already.”

With his finger still in Connor’s mouth Hank doesn’t miss the way his sire shivers at his words, eyelids fluttering. He sucks on Hank’s fingers for a while longer before finally pulling them out with one last nip. When he opens his eyes, the brown in them has shifted, and Hank finds himself staring at the pair of familiar, rusty red eyes; the same eyes that Hank had seen right before his death.

“If that is what you wish.” It's the only verbal response that Hank gets before Connor shifts and all but lunges forward to seal their lips together. Connor doesn’t bother with much foreplay apparently, his free hand shifting to cradle the back of Hank’s head so that he can tilt their mouths for him to deepen the kiss. Hank moans when he feels the slick probing of Connor’s tongue into his mouth, then does it louder when he realizes that Connor has cut his tongue to bleed and Hank’s own mouth now floods with the taste of his sire’s blood, and it hits him somewhere impossibly deep.

He reaches forward and pulls himself closer to Connor as his sire presses closer to him, shivering as he feels Connor touching his mark once more. He sucks on Connor’s tongue, moaning into his mouth as the familiar, delectable taste fills his senses again, rushing through him like a tidal wave of desire. All he can think about is taking more, wanting more, having more, whatever his sire wants to give him because Connor has already given him everything he could want. He is claimed and safe and desired and fed. Nothing else matters right now. Nothing except for Connor.

Connor sighs into his mouth, licking into him a few more times before he begins to urge for Hank to lie back down. Hank obeys without question, and as he falls back a cool, tickling sensation passes through him. By the time he’s on the mattress his clothes are gone, and Connor is also naked as he straddles across his thighs, looking perfectly sinful.

His sire looks down at him with a soft glow in his rusty gaze and Hank feels a flare of heat coming off from his own eyes in response. He feels the soft pinpricks of his own fangs pressing against the bottom of his mouth and tries to retract them, but his efforts are interrupted when Connor runs both of his hands down the length of his body, stopping to gently pat at the softness at his gut.

 _What do you like?_ Even like this Hank can hear the purr in his sire’s voice, a seductive promise of all the things that he can have as long as he asks. _Tell me._

“I—” Hank knows that he has to answer but at the same time he can’t stop licking his lips, desperate to taste any last dregs of Connor’s blood in his mouth. He doesn’t want to forget the taste of his sire’s blood, how it deepens the bond between them and makes Hank feel like he’s truly a part of this being who owns him. Truthfully they don’t even need to have sex, but Hank would be lying if he said he didn’t want it.

He swallows down his tongue, trying to get himself to focus—or at least, as much as he can focus with the haze of _want_ that’s quickly overshadowing all other coherent thought. “I want to—can I fuck you?”

Some part of him points out that this probably isn’t something he should be asking for a first time, but Hank just knows that it is alright. Connor owns him, after all, and there is no reason for him to hide anything from his sire. Still, he doesn’t want to lock Connor into one particular option, so he continues on. “Or I mean—fuck, I could blow you. I’d like that, but I—with my fangs I dunno if that’s a good idea.”

Connor hums thoughtfully, running a hand back upwards, his gaze intent as he watches the way Hank arches up into his touch. _We can table the blowjob for next time,_ he responds, and some part of Hank thrills at the knowledge that there is actually a next time, that he can have the privilege to receive his sire’s attentions in this manner some time again in the near future. _As it stands, I see no reason to turn down your request._

He bends down after those words and starts to lavish attention on his neck, and it's so good that Hank purrs. After trying to fight it for so long it's so good to be able to indulge a little in the feeling of doing right by Connor—of following orders. He is Connor’s First, after all, so it's only right that he has to be good. He _wants_ to be good, because then maybe he can drink his sire’s blood again because the taste is so good and he can’t imagine ever drinking from anyone else.

The scars on his neck start to ache when his body realizes that Connor had been pointedly avoiding that particular section. The throbbing is insistent enough that Hank whines, voicing out a wordless plea for his sire to hear. Connor kisses back up the unmarked side of his neck when he hears that, soothing the ache within him by kissing him and letting Hank suck on his tongue once more. The wound is still there, though the bleeding has tapered considerably at this point. But it's still just as good, and Hank laps up the blood from his sire’s mouth, moaning low against his tongue. At this slower pace Hank can have more time to enjoy the warmth and taste of his sire’s blood, the essence that connects them and marks him as Connor’s progeny.

It probably should be alarming to have these thoughts, and part of Hank is sure that he would be concerned if he had more of his wits about him. But those worries are secondary when everything about this just feels so good.

Connor eventually pulls away from the kiss once the bleeding in his mouth is almost non-existent, nipping at Hank’s bottom lip to draw out another whine. Hank lets it out without thinking twice, his hands grabbing at Connor’s wrists when his sire slides his hands back up to his chest.

He looks up to Connor and completely fails to hide his eagerness as he asks his question. “Are you gonna ride me, or should we switch places?”

The ghost of a smile appears on his sire’s face. _That depends on what you prefer,_ he replies, _Do you want me to bounce on your cock, or do you want to press me down onto this bed and fuck my ass?_

Both options sound equally tempting, and Hank knows that he will enjoy whichever one that he chooses. But even with this there is a single truth that boils inside of him, something that he wants right now more than anything else.

He _wants_ Connor to bite him. He wants the pain and the fire and to work out the last of his aggression on the person who took his life.

His voice is a growl when he speaks. “I wanna hold you down till you scream.”

Connor moans softly at the words, leaning in to nuzzle into Hank’s beard and jaw. Pressed close like this Hank can feel the delicious shiver that runs through his sire’s body, and something in his chest swells up, pleased and happy that he is able to make his sire feel that way. That he can be this good for Connor.

He continues with the attention for a while more, hands stroking up and down the length of Hank’s body, his touch so good and right that all Hank can do is to arch up into it once again, gasping as he feels Connor’s desire blending with his own. It’s hard to think why he even bothered to try and resist in the first place. If this is how it feels every time they have sex, he’d be more than happy to keep doing this.

Faint amusement blooms at the back of his mind at that thought. _As you wish, my blood,_ Connor finally says, giving one more nip to Hank’s jaw before he pulls away and shifts himself off entirely. Hank follows without question, moving to sit up himself, gaze transfixed on the sight of his sire as he reaches out to stroke his hands up and down the expanse of Connor’s smooth, perfect skin. Anything to keep them physically connected as they swap places and Hank presses Connor down onto the mattress.

Some part of Hank points out to him that he’s the one who is supposed to be serving Connor, not the other way around. It's hard to not agree, but he certainly isn’t complaining. Still, there is a truth to that; he is Connor’s blood and his tool but yet Connor is letting him choose. Letting him indulge. Even now, his mind fuzzy with arousal, he knows it's something to not be taken lightly, and there’s a sense of gratitude from deep within him.

Now it's Hank’s turn to run his hands down the length of Connor’s body as he lies below him, shivering at the purr his sire makes while Hank touches him. The glow in his eyes intensifies as he stares up at Hank and licks his lips; as Hank looks back he feels the desire that Connor feels for him,how his sire admires the way he looms from above all big and strong and wonderful. If he wasn’t doped up on the thought of being able to fuck his sire, Hank would have been a lot more self-conscious about that. Even now it’s still somewhat mind boggling to think that Connor finds him desirable in the first place, especially considering how perfect he is and how he brings warmth to his now cold skin and unbeating heart. Why Connor ever decided to turn somebody like him will probably never cease to confuse him.

Whatever the reason is, Hank decides it can wait. Right now he takes this opportunity for what it is and makes full use of this chance to touch and hold and caress Connor like he’s the most precious thing Hank has ever laid his eyes on. “I… the voice thing that you’re doing. Can I do that, too?” It might be useful later, he thinks, especially if his mouth is occupied. He certainly hopes that his mouth will be busy with something very soon.

The corner of Connor’s lips quirk upward. _If you mean telepathy, yes._ He reaches up with one of his hands to trace fingers down Hank’s jaw, eventually cupping it in his palm. As he does that Hank feels a current of warm pleasure permeating through him, causing his eyes to flutter as he tilts his head down to lean in to his sire’s touch, almost too distracted to hear Connor’s next words. _Compulsion is a different matter entirely, but it is not wholly improbable for you._

There’s something in that response that Hank thinks he should probably question but his thoughts are scattered, and he can’t quite muster up the willpower to actually focus. So instead he simply keeps on dragging his hands over Connor’s skin, muttering a low, distracted ‘yeah’. Touching like this means that Hank can feel the blood of his sire coursing through his body, coupled with the sweet smell of his delicious, hungry pleasure. He starts to roll his hips down against Connor, finally starting them off with the friction that he’s wanted so badly since he first tasted his sire’s blood.

Connor responds at once, moaning softly as he arches up a little to let their hips meet and Hank shifts to accommodate him. “Can you tell what I’m thinking?”

 _I can always hear you._ Connor’s eyes slide half-closed, sighing and beginning to move his hips back in time with Hank. _Just as I can always smell you. You have no idea how delicious you are right now._

Hank makes a noise at the back of his throat, his body shivering at the praise. “You feel pretty fucking hot, too.” He isn’t as eloquent as Connor, since he still has no real idea what his new senses are really telling him beyond the instinctual sense of _good_ or why he can feel the truth of Connor’s words in his head. All he knows is that he likes it, like how they’re everywhere and likes that it makes him feel alive—though it’s a different way as compared to when he was drinking Connor’s blood.

Still, it's close enough. Close enough for him to not care and to move on because he’d rather busy himself with things like kissing Connor again while dragging his big, calloused hands down to Connor’s hips and groin. He’s always been told that he has big hands, and it works to their favor now when he reaches down to grab both of their cocks together in a single hand. Hank begins to stroke, groaning low at the sensation as his hand works down their erections in a shuddering slide. “Fuck… tell me. What I’m doing to you, or—I mean, what you like.” He wants to make his sire feel good. It’s the only thing that concerns him, now.

 _You are..._ Connor trails off to a breathy sigh when Hank twists his hand on an upward stroke, shivering ever so slightly. _Fire. Passion. A lion, ruling his domain on the African savanna._ He licks deeper into Hank’s mouth, his now healed tongue curling around one of the fangs. He presses the muscle to the tip and Hank groans at that, the wordless promise of being able to partake his sire’s blood once more a tease he can’t ignore.

Connor’s voice continues to float in his mind, and every word that he says goes straight to his cock, making him moan into their kiss as he continues to stroke them both slow and hard with his nice, big hand that he now knows his sire likes. _Your pleasure, your want, your desire—I feel all of them. I love that I can feel them, and I love knowing that it belongs to me._

He pulls away from the kiss at that point and Hank whines softly in disappointment, though he’s soon reassured when Connor shifts downwards to tongue the scars on his neck once more. Every swipe of his tongue against those marks sends an electric surge of pleasure through him, making him gasp and swear, hips jerking into his own hand as his want rises.

“Fuck.” Being claimed has never felt this good. It shouldn’t be this good. But with how deeply Connor owns him it feels like everything he says feels true, a very prayer to his blood and soul. _Fuck_.

He feels it clearly, this time—Connor’s approval and his desire, tangible sensations that seem to curl around his mind and stroke the very core of his being, cradling him in a blanket of home and security. Hank is only all too happy to have it, groaning as those sensations add another layer to the already deep connection that Hank can feel in his soul.

 _I love that you are mine, and nobody else’s._ Connor continues to trace the marks with his tongue, fangs occasionally grazing over them, driving Hank further up the wall with just how much he aches for his sire’s bite. _Mine, from now and until the end of time._

Connor starts to move his hands around then, stroking and caressing every inch of his body—from the softness of his belly to the muscles at his back. Hank is quickly lost into it, moaning helplessly into Connor’s mouth. His sire’s hands feel so warm and alive that it’s hard to believe that he is actually undead, although Connor’s last words serve as a somewhat painful reminder.

“Could you, maybe...” His own thoughts trail off as he works them through another stroke. Connor seems to have noticed that at least, since he pauses the movements of his hands in order to give Hank time to speak up. Even then, however, it takes a bit before Hank can pick his thoughts back up. It’s definitely a lot harder to focus now with all the kissing and moaning that’s been going on and how worked up he already feels. _I’m not ready to think about living forever. Can we table that?_

Instead of an answer he watches Connor shifting himself backwards so that his sire can look at him, his head tilted ever so slightly as he gazes up at Hank with some form of interest. Hank holds his breath, some part of him expecting to be ignored, but is quickly assured otherwise when a small smile graces his sire’s lips.

 _Alright._ Connor reaches up to cup his jaw as something strokes him at his core at the same time, like a physical sensation in the deepest parts of him. Instinct tells him that it is his sire’s power and the knowledge of that brings him comfort, to be able to feel the way Connor can touch him both inside and out. _I suppose right now is far more interesting, anyway._

Hank makes a sound of agreement. _Yeah, I…_ He pauses then, belatedly coming to realize that he’s already starting to talk with his mind. He only has a second to digest that fact before Connor tugs him back in for another kiss and all Hank can think about now is how good his sire’s blood had tasted, how warm it had been on his lips. It leaves him wanting more—and he remembers now that he had been promised more.

He gives their cocks one last stroke before letting go in order to slide his hand lower, sighing into his mouth when he feels Connor spreading his legs for him. He presses his hand up against the inside of Connor’s thigh, stroking the skin there as he asks, _Do you have lube?_ He doesn’t exactly know if vampires need that, since it’s not as if this particular bit of information had been relevant to him until tonight.

Once again, there is no immediate verbal answer from Connor, but he does stretch out the hand that isn’t holding Hank’s jaw. Hank feels a small pulse of power and glances up, just in time to catch the way the shadows around his sire’s outstretched hand seems to solidify. Tendrils of darkness slide out from it, gathering together to form a smooth, unnatural ball on his palm that only lasts for a second before suddenly melting away, revealing a bottle of lubricant just like Hank had requested.

Hank is still a little in shock when Connor passes said bottle over with a small, almost mischievous smile on his face. _Yes_ , he says.

Once Hank has recovered from his surprise, there is only one way to respond to that. _Holy fuck._ That… certainly is very strange, to put it mildly. Still, he’s got better things to do right now than to ask questions. He has the lube that he wanted and regardless of his feelings for Connor, he’s never been the type to give his bed partner a rough time.

Hank takes a bit to get his fingers coated, and once he’s done he presses his index finger right up against Connor’s ass. It only takes a moment for him to sink his finger past the tight muscles at the entrance and Hank thrills at the way Connor shivers and sighs into the sensation. If there’s one thing being a vampire is good for, it’s that somehow sex feels a lot more intense than he remembers it being.

The way Connor acts certainly suggests it, at least, along with what Hank has been feeling this far. _I love your fingers,_ he hears his sire say, the words coming out in a pleased, happy purr.

Hank can’t help but chuckle softly at the pleasure that he feels from Connor. _They’re kinda big,_ he remarks in return. Back when he actually did this with other people—male or female, pussy or ass—all he’d usually get are complaints. Not surprising, since his fingers are broad and calloused; far rougher than what most people would have liked.

Still, it has been a while for him, and Connor is a lot more pliant than he had expected, so it doesn’t take long for him to sink his finger up to the second knuckle. Hank feels Connor clenching around him and groans. _Fuck, you really want this, huh?_

 _Of course I do, they’re **perfect**_. A new wave of pleasure washes over Hank when Connor all but purrs out the last word, pleasure that he knows belongs to his sire. _I want everything of you, Hank. I want you to give it all to me._

Even more pleasure floods through their connection, and that alone is enough for Hank to groan again. Just being able to feel the way Connor wants him is enough to make Hank hunger for his sire in return, even without being touched. Much as Hank wants to do this right, he can’t muster the will to slow down. He needs it too much.

That isn’t to say Hank’s going to make it easy, though. _What if I don’t want that, huh? You gonna take it from me?_ He tries for stubborn but that has melted away long ago, and his desire to hear Connor lose it trumps everything else in that moment. He slides a second finger into Connor and watches the way his sire’s eyes flutter.

Once Connor has recovered he’s reaching down for Hank, delving fingers into his hair and petting him happily. _Taking is what everyone does,_ he says, _What I want is your surrender. I want to see you when you give in, when you shudder and fall to pieces for me. The taste of your surrender will be the sweetest yet._

It should be alarming as hell to hear that, considering that Connor more or less straight up admitted that he _wants_ to break Hank. Yet all that Hank can feel is how hot it would actually be if that happened. To feel just how much his sire wants this—wants _him_ and Hank’s own want echoes right back.

Still, the small, remaining logical part of him manages to claw its way up to point out the flaw in his sire’s want, and it’s enough to make Hank scowl and summon up a response that isn’t some variation of ‘ _yes, please_.’

 _Good luck with that, asshole._ That is definitely better than anything else he would have wanted to say, though he doesn’t exactly stop working his fingers into Connor. His sire is far from a good person but Hank can’t deny the need that owns him right now. His body doesn’t want to let him stop and Hank doesn’t exactly want to stop himself, either.

Connor, at the very least, seems to be more than okay with it—for better or for worse. _It’ll be boring if you give in too easily._

 _Wouldn’t want you getting bored._ Hank starts to scissor his fingers inside of Connor at this point, relishing the way his sire shudders and moans in response. His hips jerk forward in an aborted thrust, and he tightens his hold on Hank’s hair, tugging at it demandingly.

 _More,_ his sire commands, impatient and greedy, and Hank can only obey. He adds in a third finger quick and sudden, watching as Connor gasps at it, breath hitching. It’s definitely quite a sight, and Hank knows it’ll only get better once he starts moving. He begins to thrust his fingers in and out of Connor’s ass, and just as expected Connor reacts immediately, squirming on his fingers, already wanting more. Connor is one hell of a greedy jerk, but Hank can’t say that he doesn’t like it. He’s always had a thing for guys with attitudes.

Hank smirks as he continues to work his fingers inside of Connor. _I could stop right now and you’d beg, wouldn’t you?_

The words are teasing, obviously not meant to be serious, but they must have struck some chord in Connor without Hank realizing it. In the next moment Connor is growling, fangs and eyes flashing in warning as he glares at Hank and snarls through their link. _Not before I make you beg first._

It’s hard to effectively describe what happens next; the best description that Hank could come up with is like having a giant, clawed hand dig into what feels like his very _soul_ and overwhelm him with the desire to submit. It’s so powerful that Hank physically is forced downwards, nearly losing his strength and landing on top of Connor. That’s not good.

Still, even then his hand seems to have a mind of its own, moving on autopilot. He feels his fingers brushing against Connor’s prostate which is probably the worst thing to do since what Connor had done is something that Hank very definitely does not agree with. The shock of it is enough to dissipate the fog in his mind, clearing up his head for the moment even if his body is prisoner to Connor’s whims.

He sends a frown in Connor’s direction. _What happened to anything I want, and doing this for me?_ Because as far as he can tell _that_ certainly wasn’t happening now, what with his body moving on its own. He may not be able to fight it but at least right now he has enough semblance of mind to speak out.

Connor blinks at the words, the anger on his expression clearing up into a more neutral look, broken briefly when Hank feels his fingers brushing up against Connor’s prostate once more. Despite everything Hank still can’t help but appreciate the way Connor’s eyes flutter at the pleasure that he feels, as undeserving of it as he may be.

 _I…_ he starts, only to trail off, and at the back of his mind Hank feels something that he can only describe as _regret_. There’s also a distinct sense of discomfort mixed along with it, and it's not hard for Hank to get the sense that neither of these are things that Connor experiences a lot. Not surprising, considering the whole vampire angle, but still. It’s something.

He pulls away from his own thoughts when he feels Connor combing fingers through his hair once more, palm smoothing down the strands. _I should not have done that; it was uncalled for. I acted out of turn._

Connor shifts, propping himself up with an elbow, and as he does so Hank can feel a lessening of Connor’s presence in his mind. The tether on his thoughts loosens, and his hand stops moving as well. This must be Connor withdrawing his influence, then, or whatever it’s called.

Hank feels a kiss being pressed to his jaw. _If you no longer wish to continue…_ Connor lets the question linger, but the offer is there; a way out for Hank if he no longer wants this. And to be offered something like that is certainly something. For a guy who had said that he wanted Hank to submit, he certainly is bad at following through, one way or another. Still, Hank can’t exactly complain. He’d rather still have himself than to be a mindless toy of some other vampire.

Even so, it is a fact that Connor had been kind of a dick earlier back there. _You’re a fucking creep, you know that?_

 _I’ve heard worse,_ comes the easy response from Connor. Hank wants to say that he’s mad but he doesn’t quite feel that way. He knows that he’s stuck with him despite everything. His blood is Connor’s blood. Perhaps for now Connor will let him mouth off and fight against it, but there is always the chance of the monster fully taking over. Connor may regret his actions now but that doesn’t make him any less capable of breaking Hank in two if he ever truly feels like it.

It’s definitely a sobering thought. Too bad his dick doesn’t seem to get the message, though that could easily be Connor’s doing. But the apology, as much as Connor doesn’t say the actual word, feels at least a little sincere, and the kiss isn’t all bad.

He can work with this, he thinks. His own goal, if he is to be stuck here. If he’s going to be stuck with this vampire, then he can attempt to teach Connor some damn respect.

 _But I think I might like gettin’ to see you scream._ With a smirk Hank thrusts his fingers back into Connor’s ass and watches the way his sire moans and shudders, his body dropping back onto the mattress. Connor calls out his name through their bond and the sound of it is easily the sweetest thing that Hank has heard from him yet.

He continues to fuck Connor’s ass with his fingers, making sure to hit his prostate over and over again and enjoying the way Connor keeps calling out his name. _You sound real good saying my name._ Hank thinks he can definitely stay here like this, uncaring about everything else. As long as he can keep hearing this, it’s all he needs.

Connor calls out his name each time he rubs his fingers up against his prostate, nice and sweet and wonderful, and with every successive cry Hank loses himself further in the pleasure that rushes through him hot and thick. After a few more cries he begins to hear an echo of his name in his head after every time Connor says it. It gets louder with each iteration, filling him up until eventually it's all that he hears and knows, every part of him tuned to the pleasure that his sire feels.

It feels good. It feels so good to please his sire, to touch him like this and feel the way his pleasure flows into him back in return, knowing that it is a privilege that has been granted to him. Hank flicks his gaze up and meets his sire’s eyes, shivering when he sees how they now shine with bright crimson. That piercing gaze burrows right into him, and this time when Connor says his name there’s a weight to it that strikes at his very soul.

 _ **Hank**_. The echo this time sends a pleasant rush through his body, like a pulse in his blood even though Hank knows that it should be impossible. But he feels it, hot and throbbing, beating in time to the way Connor clenches around his fingers. He can feel Connor all around him, a phantom sensation that feels all too real, wrapping around him and making him feel so safe and cared for. Connor is here. His sire is here and Hank has nothing to worry about. All he has to do is to listen and follow.

Connor’s pleasure is now also his own, echoing in his bones and in every call of his name, and right now that pleasure demands more. And now with how connected they are he knows what Connor wants from him, even without his sire having to ask.

Hank hurriedly finishes the last of his prep and lines himself up, pausing to look up at his sire. He doesn’t need to guess how he must look now—every part of his body trembling in need, his gaze desperate and pleading, waiting for Connor to give him the command on what to do. Everything feels far too good to deny his sire any longer.

Connor purrs, splaying his legs out, showing off the way his slick little hole twitches in anticipation just for him. He licks his lips as he drags his hand down from Hank’s hair to his throat, pressing his fingers up against his mark again. The rush of sensation that Hank feels from the touch this time, coupled with the way he sees the light glinting off Connor’s fangs, opens up something primal from within him that he's only had for a little while but feels like it encompasses everything he is.

“ _ **Fuck me,**_ ” his sire commands. The words ring both in his mind and out, and Hank can only be compelled to obey. He can only obey because he knows now that whatever his sire says will only be good for him, because his sire is good and can only be good and there is no reason to think otherwise. Connor’s pleasure and desire are so potent now, intertwining so close to his own that the line between them blurs.

Hank feels a burn in his eyes as he groans, fangs aching in response to the want that he can feel from his sire. He guides himself the rest of the way and drives his cock into his sire’s open, willing body in one swift movement, shivering at the throaty purr Connor lets out when he does so.

 _ **Mine.**_ His sire’s voice echoes in his head, and Hank can now feel the full extent of his sire’s pleasure as it pours into him. A reward for being good, for doing what Connor wants him to do, and Hank can only crave for more.

Hank only takes a moment to shift them into the optimal position before he starts to thrust, fucking Connor without even bothering to catch his breath. There is no need for him to do that now, after all. He doesn’t need to breathe. He is a vampire, and Connor is his sire.

He thrusts without pause, Connor clenching around him each time, hot and good and wonderful. Connor is all he can feel now, the only thing that matters, the only thing that he has to do. He fucks Connor and feels his sire’s pleasure filling him back in return, wiping away any other coherent thought in his mind. All he knows is Connor and how he needs to just keep on fucking him again and again, to lose himself in the overwhelming presence of his sire all around him and be what Connor wants him to be.

When Connor reaches out to pull him down he complies without question, pressing their bodies together with no inch of space left between them. He continues to slam his hips into Connor, hearing the way his sire moans into his ear every time his cock goes all the way inside of him and the sound of it strikes Hank at his core, making him only want more of it—more of this pleasure, more of this connection, more of everything that Connor grants onto him.

 _Connor_ , he calls out this time, unable to hide the need that burns through him, the wanton desire that he has for his sire.

Connor responds with a hum, running a tongue up the shell of his ear before he nicks a mark at his earlobe and chuckles darkly at the way Hank groans in return, the spark of pain heightening the pleasure that already overwhelms him. _What do you want, Hank?_ he asks as he laps at the wound, voice holding a purr of dark promise. _**Tell me.**_

The answer comes out from Hank all too quickly. _This_ , he gasps out, still thrusting, fully consumed by the sensations that he feels from his sire. _**You.**_

He feels Connor shuddering against him in return, and his sire gives his earlobe one more lick before he moves. He shifts himself lower, kissing down the line of his jaw, brushing down against his cheek, pausing briefly to give a nip at his lips before continuing down even further. He presses a kiss underneath his chin and uses his tongue traces a path from there to the marks on his neck once more.

When he gets there this time his sire teases with promise; Hank knows that Connor’s fangs have extended to their full length this time when gently scrapes them over the scars of his bite, and he swears. By now he is nothing more but a raw nerve, all desire and want and long fangs and red eyes and loud moans.

Connor’s voice is conversationally light when he speaks. _What exactly do you want from me?_

Hank makes a needy sound from the back of his throat. His sire is well aware of what Hank wants more than anything and the fact that he’s asking Hank for it is a torture too sweet to bear. It kills him that Connor is still teasing and toying with him but he knows that it’s also his right because Connor is his sire, his master. What could make this more perfect other than to finally let Connor claim him again and again?

 _Mark me._ There is no need to hide what he wants from his sire. Connor already knows everything. _Claim me. **Bite me.**_

He feels Connor smiling against his throat after hearing those words, one hand shifting to cup the other side of his face. _Never forget, my blood,_ he says, whispering the words to him like a tender secret, _that you are **mine**._

Connor’s fangs plunge into his throat in the next moment, and Hank is instantly lost. He comes with a moan, growling loud and deep as he feels himself being claimed by Connor once more. Everything that is Connor sweeps over him, drowning him in pleasure so deep and exquisite that it can only come from being owned so sublimely and completely. Hank feels nothing else but his sire from the bond they share and the attunement Hank holds to his body and his blood as he shakes and shudders apart underneath his sire’s fangs.

 _Yours,_ he hears himself say, in a voice so very far away from him. _I am **yours** , master._

Connor growls back in return. **_Mine,_** his master echoes the sentiment, dark pleasure threading through that one word. Hank feels a warmth blooming from his chest and groans, shivering as he feeds off the joy and promise that his sire’s pleasure gives him.

Hank doesn’t know exactly how long his orgasm lasts, or if he’s still even coming at all; everything becomes hazy after that point. He only knows pleasure and warmth and comfort and safety, cradled as he is in the very essence of his sire. His master continues to suckle at his neck, fangs and lips still there, and the sensation of it is so good that all he can do is to whimper helplessly.

It’s so much better than before, now. Where the first bite had been pain and fire and _pain_ , this is warm like sitting by a fire on a cold night. Hank feels the way his master wraps around him with his power and strength and he clings back to it in return, a purr rumbling from his own chest as every part of him thrums in the sweet sense of completion that comes in doing exactly what his master wants of him. He doesn’t think he has ever felt this _happy_ at all in his entire life.

Connor drinks until he’s had his fill, and when he pulls away Hank whines at the loss of his master’s wonderful fangs on his neck. He’s quickly placated though when Connor kisses at the scars, laving at them with his tongue until the wound closes back up. It’s not as good as his fangs but it still fills Hank with warmth, and when Connor pulls away fully and shifts Hank into his arms he's more than happy to cuddle up to his sire, pressing close to him with another pleased sound.

He feels a hand in his hair as Connor strokes his head, soft amusement bleeding through their bond and filling his mind with more wonderful warmth. _My blood,_ he murmurs fondly, and Hank sighs contentedly at the endearment. This is where he should be. This is who he belongs to. There is no doubt about that.

Those are the last thoughts that float in Hank’s mind before he falls asleep to sensation of Connor stroking his hair, taking in the comfort and knowledge that his sire will be there for him when he wakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [left foot trapped in a sensual seduction](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V_wF2aMk2wI).
> 
> Special thanks to **glymr** and **jj** once more for beta-ing this chapter for me!! Now I don't have to live in embarrassing typo hell.
> 
> And as of now this is as much as I initially wrote/have written before needing to break in order to focus on my entry for the upcoming HankCon 2018/9 Big Bang. With luck I can get started on the next part during NaNo period after finishing my entry, but either way expect a chapter to come by sometime in December. I'll make it happen by hook or by crook. 
> 
> As always, feel free to hit me up on Twitter at **@tasogareika** for my many retweets of Hankcon stuff among other things, if interested. Trying to use it more often now these days now that I have a reason to lmao. Feel free to let me know what you think of this story so far down in the comments below or @ me through Twitter; I love to hear people's thoughts about this since its so far out of my comfort zone. :x Thank you all in advance for taking the time to read and comment/kudos/bookmark this fic!


	4. springtime of life’s erotic hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after—or, well, the night after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** _*points to dubcon tag.... again...*_ at least its very mild this time. Milder than last chapter at least. The power imbalance also continues.

“— _felt_ you from the other end of this blasted building, Connor.”

“Then perhaps it's a sign that we need a bigger place.” 

“We are _already_ in the biggest place the Council will grant to us.”

“I’m sure you can convince them to give us a bigger one.”

“This is no laughing matter, Connor.”

Voices, yet again. Hank hears them this time, though he’s still far too drowsy to really digest the words. It’s hard to focus on anything else when he feels so warm and comfortable. There’s a hand stroking through his hair, every touch sending a pleasant pulse of warmth through his entire body.

“You did not report to the Council after your mission.”

“As you already know, I had been… preoccupied.”

“I’m aware.”

The stroking starts to slow. The lessening of that pleasant warmth is what slowly rouses Hank to full awareness, and as he blinks away the last dredges of sleep his mind finally becomes awake enough to listen in on the conversation that’s apparently going on.

“The Council already contacted me to seek answers. I had inform them on what transpired.”

“It hasn’t even been a full night yet.” It’s all too easy to hear the frown in Connor’s voice, even if Hank is unable to see his face right now.

“Then you should have reported—”

The other voice abruptly falls silent. The hand on his head stops completely, dropping to his shoulder, and somehow Hank just knows that it's his cue to fully wake up. He slowly opens his eyes, mind kicking into full gear and—

—Jesus fucking Christ, is that _another_ Connor standing right there?

“Fuck, there’s two of you?” Hank blurts out before he can stop himself as he begins to push himself to sit upright. He gets about halfway there before it finally sinks in that he is very much naked and also in bed.

There’s probably a new world record for how quickly Hank feels his face heating up as he splutters and reaches over to pull the covers over himself—and Connor. Connor, who is also naked and also in bed with him. Connor, the vampire who killed him. The asshole who got him into this mess in the first place.

The guy who he had just sex with. _Really_ good sex, for the record. Mindblowing, even.

Christ, his life (or well, unlife) is a fucking mess.

Hank puts on his best scowl and glares at this… other Connor who is standing next to the bed. “Who the hell are you? Wh—what the fuck is this?”

The expression on the other Connor’s face as he stares back at Hank in turn could be best described as ‘impressively unimpressed’. Hank personally thinks it looks like he’s just pissed in his coffee or something.

Before either of them can speak, however, Connor cuts in between them. Hank feels fingers rubbing at the nape of his neck as Connor gestures to his double. “Hank, this is—”

“Niles.” It takes a moment for Hank to place where he’s heard it until it click into place—Niles. Connor’s… brother. Or maybe a bit more than just brother, considering the eerily identical looks. Yeah, okay, at least their voices sound different enough for him to distinguish between them easily enough. He doesn’t want to imagine the headache he’d have to endure if even their voices were going to be identical. “If I had the choice I would rather be elsewhere, but as Connor refuses to leave your side, I find myself forced to be here.” 

As he speaks Hank can see the other Connor— _Niles’s_ gaze studying him up and down. With each pass the frown on his face slowly deepens, and Hank can all too easily feel the disapproval coming off from him in waves. That’s certainly one hell of a first impression, alright. Not that Hank was actually trying to seek approval from Connor’s… twin. 

Of course it has to be twins. Fuck. This whole thing with Connor is messed up enough as it is, but this just makes it worse. Why could nothing about this be simple? He can already feel his head starting to hurt just from attempting to figure out the logistics of where his mind is running to.

Hank mutters another curse under his breath as he glances over to Connor. He can’t exactly lie and say he doesn’t appreciate Connor still being here. It makes the whole whirlwind of everything that happened last night feel less like a spur of the moment fuck and more like something they could actually do a lot more of—

—though this is probably something he shouldn’t be dwelling on right now, given present circumstances. Last night may have been great but it isn’t going to change the fact of _what_ he is. He has zero fucking clue what he’s supposed to do now or how the whole vampire shtick is really going to work but it sure isn’t going to stop him from being annoyed at Connor for apparently trying to shirk his responsibilities, if he understood what they had been talking about earlier. Or at least, the parts that he had actually heard. “The hell are you still doing here then? You using me as an excuse to slack off? And what the hell is this ‘Council’ anyway?”

Connor doesn’t respond to him—in fact, it almost seems like he isn’t paying attention to him at all. Hank sends a glare in Connor’s direction, who continues to remain unresponsive save for a slow tilt of his head. 

Hank quickly finds himself at the end of his (very limited) patience. He’s about to snap at Connor when Niles suddenly speaks up. “We will continue this conversation later, Connor.” He turns back to look at the other vampire then; Niles is also looking Connor with an expression of annoyance. He takes a moment to adjust the sleeves of his shirt before continuing to speak. “You have a fledgling to attend to.”

Niles directs his gaze over to Hank at those words and Hank sees the faint downward curl at the corners of his lips. Cool grey eyes stare at him for a second more before shifting back to Connor, who remains impassive. Niles narrows his eyes briefly and then turns to make his exit—by phasing through the door instead of opening it up like any other normal person. Hank can’t quite stop himself from jumping a little when he sees that happen.

“Jesus christ.” Yeah, he can easily tell that he’s gotten on Niles’s bad side. Not that he knows _why_ , or what that means for him in the future. If Niles is—fuck, if Niles is Connor’s twin, does that mean he’s going to ‘belong’ to him as well? Christ, that is not a thought he wants to entertain.

Hard to drop it, though, when there’s still so much he doesn’t understand. Now that he’s actually seen another vampire besides Connor, the reality of his new (un)life is slowly sinking into him, and nothing about it is giving Hank much comfort at all. 

Hank looks over to Connor once more. “What just happened? What… who the fuck is Niles?” Well, he _knows_ who Niles is obviously but he’s hoping Connor can give him a little more information to work with here because this whole not knowing anything is really starting to get to him the more he thinks about it. “Start talking, Connor.” Fuck, why did this have to happen to him? He never fucking asked for this. He doesn’t know what to do—

Connor blinks at the questions, as if somehow surprised by them. “Of course,” he says, “but first…” 

He trails off, reaching over with both of his hands to cup the sides of Hank’s face. Hank is forced to keep still, his gaze locked onto Connor’s. He takes note of the fact that Connor’s eyes are brown again when some part of him faintly remembers them being red instead. When had that happened again…? He tries to think about it but is quickly interrupted when Connor brushes his thumbs across his cheeks, the touch jolting something warm inside him which only grows when Connor proceeds to kiss him.

Hank definitely knows that he was halfway to formulating some kind of words to tell Connor that he _doesn’t_ want to kiss him, but that thought goes right out of the window the moment their lips meet. Hank feels his eyes sliding shut as he leans into the kiss, groaning against his sire’s lips as the warmth within him expands. He can’t lie to himself how good even this feels, after last night and maybe later they can—

—okay, fuck, no, he needs to stop thinking with his fucking dick just because he actually got some last night. Hank places a hand onto Connor’s chest and pushes him back. “H-Hold on,” he starts, trying (and failing) to ignore the flush that’s crept onto his face once more. “You can’t just—you have to explain shit _first_ , then kiss me!” 

…alright so his words and his actions are… not as authorative as he’d like it to be, and Hank can only curse his body for this weakness. It’s all because of the sex they had last night, which he can admit was good. Really good. Probably the best he's ever fucking had, and he really doesn’t want to dwell on that any longer than he already has.

Connor, for the most part, only seems amused by Hank’s actions and words. “I didn’t know there had to be a particular order of events for these sorts of things.” It’s clear enough from his tone that Connor is joking, though that doesn’t make Hank feel any better.

Hank scowls. “Glad you can joke when that prick just came in here and looked at me like I personally pissed in his coffee.”

Maybe talking shit about his brother isn’t the best kind of response to give, but Connor hardly seems to mind. If anything he seems even more amused. “Don’t worry about Niles. He’s just annoyed that he got interrupted.” He smiles again and strokes Hank’s cheeks with his thumbs one more time, sending another pulse of warmth through his body. “But good evening to you. I trust you slept well.”

“Yeah, I slept fine.” Hank can’t quite stop the sigh that escapes him with that response. He slept more than fine, if he had to be honest about it—he can’t remember when he'd last managed to sleep that soundly. The hunter’s life didn’t exactly afford Hank the luxury of such comfortable sleep, not when there were monsters ready to barge in through the door and rip you to shreds. There’s certainly an irony here that it took him being dead and getting turned into a monster to finally have this, but that’s a can of worms Hank does not want to open any time soon. 

He reaches up with the intent to grab Connor’s wrists and pull his hands away from his face, but he doesn’t quite manage to get there. Hank ends up only holding one of Connor’s wrists in his hand just so he can get the other’s attention.

“Would you explain some of this shit? I don’t have to like this, but I know I’m fucking stuck with you.” This whole thing is a fucking mess, really, but that’s hardly any different from his own life. At least here he’s got someone other than himself to blame for it. “I feel like some fucking explanation would help with this whole… ‘I’m a monster now’ shit.” It’s still an uncomfortable truth, but it's not like turning away from it is going to help him at this point. Might as well try to figure out how to make it work… more or less.

Connor tilts his head to the side once more and hums, the hand not being held hostage by Hank sliding down from his face to his neck. Hank feels the skin there prickling with sensation as Connor slides his fingers over to the mark on his neck, and he sees Connor’s expression softening as he caresses the scars there. Despite everything, Hank feels himself relaxing at the touch, his body thrumming with something that almost feels like contentment. It shouldn’t be a surprise, but it is kind of nice to know that Connor’s touch feels just as good as how it had been last night. 

The smile on Connor’s face widens ever so slightly. “Certainly,” he finally responds, voice carrying the faintest hint of amusement. “Where do you want me to start?”

Hank considers on what to ask. Part of him wants to ask about the whole bond thing that he has with Connor, but a bigger part of him really isn’t that all inclined to know. Once he knows that’ll be the truth of his life here, and… and Hank isn’t sure if he’s ready for that, yet.

So instead he asks, “Okay, explain what you’re ‘supposed’ to be doing. And what the deal is with this Council shit.”

Connor’s amusement seems to grows further at the question. “I’m supposed to be doing a lot of things, Hank.” He says it with a complete lack of interest, which only serves to frustrate Hank further. 

Hank opens his mouth to point that out, but he’s cut off as Connor continues speaking. “But to answer your other question—the Council is the governing body of Midians that rule this region. I work for them, in exchange for staying within their community.”

“So they’re your government. I’d heard rumors that you guys had something like that.” It’s certainly a bit weird to consider the fact that vampires had something like a ruling body at all—to think them as anything beyond the savage, bloodthirsty monsters that Hank once actively hunted and killed. But he supposes that it applies to him now, too, and that’s yet another thought that he doesn’t really want to look too deeply into any time soon. 

Sighing, Hank lets go of Connor’s wrist and uses that hand to comb through his own hair. “Midians… those are the really strong vampires, yeah?”

Connor hums in return. “They are the most ancient and noble of vampires, their strength unparalleled by none.” He says that as he brushes his thumb across the marks on Hank’s neck, who can only shiver at the way that simple gesture sends a jolt of heat down his spine. Hank is distracted enough that he almost doesn’t see the smile that crosses Connor’s face after those words, as if he’s laughing at some hidden, private joke with himself.

He tries not to think about how that thought lurches something uncomfortable in his gut—that stray thought telling him that he isn’t worthy enough to be trusted by the one who sired him. He shouldn’t have to care about that. Connor is the asshole who _killed_ him. Good sex or not, that fact isn’t going to change.

“Right, so you work for them—these Midians.” God, he hopes he doesn’t ever have to meet them. Hank doesn’t even want to think how that’ll be like when a singular Midian is already enough trouble. A whole room full of them would easily be one of his greatest nightmares. “And you… you forgot to report back because, what, you were too busy fucking me?”

Amusement flashes in Connor’s eyes as Hank hears him let out a small chuckle. Hank starts to bristle, wanting to snap and ask what exactly amuses him so but then Connor answers the question and it instantly takes the wind out of his sails. “I don’t forget things, but yes. More or less.”

Hank has to take a second to simply—stare. To stare at Connor, and gape a little as well at how _easy_ he had just said it. “You’re seriously _that_ into fucking me?” 

Connor parts his lips, clearly about to speak, but Hank quickly tries to hush him with a wave of his hand. “Actually, no, don’t answer that. I already know.” He feels it at the back of his mind; Connor’s appreciation of him along with his contentment, wrapping around him loosely like a warm, cozy blanket. It’s almost tempting to let himself sink into it, but Hank manages to refrain from it. Even if they are _good_ it's still not _his_ , and the list of things that are ‘his’ feels scarcely short at the moment. 

Still, it’d be a lie to say that he wasn’t flattered by the fact that Connor apparently wants him that much. He’s been alone for a—well, for a good long time. So long, in fact, that this kind of companionship had become foreign to him. It’s just… nice to have this again, even if Connor is a monster. Not that Hank has much of a leg to stand on, at this point.

Connor tilts his head to the side and blinks at him, amusement showing through his smile now. “I always want you, Hank,” he says, even though Hank had already told him otherwise. 

Hank can’t say he’s terribly surprised at Connor not listening to him. He struggles with keeping his expression neutral and barely manages to succeed. “Yeah, sure, but you… I mean, you only started feeling like this cause you bit me, right?” That clearly had to be the only plausible explanation—Hank can’t see any other reason why Connor would be like this otherwise. “No offense, but… I just don’t get what part of me is seriously that great.” Sure, he can feel it through their bond and he knows that Connor isn’t lying about what he feels, but it doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t get it. Just what is it that Connor sees in him to do all of this?

“I wouldn’t have turned you in the first place if I didn’t want you.” Connor says, so simple and so easy, as if it's the most obvious thing. Hank would have tried to say something back in return but is quickly distracted when Connor runs his thumb over the marks on his neck once more, eliciting another pleasant shiver out of him. God, it's hard to fully focus when Connor is touching him like this, the sensation so electric and so right. He really should get Connor to move his hand, but Hank somehow can’t find the words to voice that out loud.

It takes a bit before Hank manages to set his focus back on their present conversation. “Right. So you turned me, and now I’m supposed to follow you around and help you work, is that all? Then why the hell is Niles so pissed at me?” It’s clear enough to Hank that he’s the main cause of Niles’s annoyance, but Connor hasn’t exactly been forthcoming about his brother.

To that all Connor really does is… shrug, apparently. “It is not just you,” he responds. “Niles tends to disapprove of a lot of things that I do. It’s a habit at this point.”

Hank frowns. It’s one thing for Connor to not be concerned about his brother’s attitude, but it’s clear that whatever has gotten Niles’s disapproval goes a bit beyond a simple ‘habit’. “It’s not just that, is it.” 

Connor goes silent for several moments. Hank keeps his gaze on him, refusing to back down from his question. Hank’s already been thrown into this mess without his consent; now all he can do is to try and keep himself afloat in this newfound disaster that is his (un)life. 

Hank's not gonna be the first to crack. The staredown continues on for a while, but eventually Connor relents with a sigh. “Niles believes that I should do things in a certain way. I’m usually inclined to think otherwise.”

The frown on Hank’s face deepens as he attempts to put the pieces together in his head. It’s only a theory at best, but… “You’re trying something new, aren’t you? With me. Since I’m your First.” And speaking of which… “Does being First mean anything special?” He’s heard the term before in passing, but back then—back when he had been human—the only thing he needed to know about vampires was the most effective way to kill them. Obviously, that knowledge doesn’t really help him with this.

“I suppose you could say that.” Connor blinks once before launching into an explanation. “Being a sire’s First indicates that they are the strongest of all the fledglings under that particular sire. They are the first that their sire has turned and thus holds the most authority among all the other fledglings that their sire has.” He pauses briefly, then, fingers gently tapping at the scars that Hank bears, and the pleasant shiver that action elicits from him almost distracts Hank from the last part of Connor's explanation. “But more importantly, only the First will ever have the privilege of being released from their makers and become their own beings in turn.”

Hank… definitely needs more than a bit to digest all of what Connor had just said to him, because there was a lot to unpack from those words. His mind does quickly latch onto one particular fact, however, and he blurts out the question before he can help it. “You mean I can just earn my way out of here? How?” The fact that freedom is an option for him definitely gives him something like hope. Of course, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s stuck as a vampire now, but at least he won’t be… well. He won’t be stuck with his own fucking killer, no matter how nice or charming he may be. There’s no way Hank can withstand an eternity with him.

A corner of Connor’s lips tilts upwards. “It is entirely dependent on the sire. If they feel their First is ready and no longer requires their guidance, then they can be released from the bond and be recognized as the newest descendant of the heritage that their blood carries. In that sense, the sire and their first will instead become kin.”

Kin… so they would be family, then. Hank makes a sound from the back of his throat as he debates on that new fact. He supposes that there’s no real way to fully sever whatever connection he has with Connor now, but it definitely would be nice to have any kind of distance from him. It should be, no matter how his gut seems to want to tell him otherwise.

Connor strokes his neck once more, the pleasant touch drawing Hank back into focus. He looks at Connor and mulls over what he’s just been told, about fledglings and being Connor’s First. He still doesn’t really know what to feel about all of this, but given the context of that entire explanation… “You planning on turning any more people, then?” It’s pretty fucking obvious that Connor could do it if he wanted to—and if Hank had to be honest, he finds it a bit hard to believe that he’s actually Connor’s… well, First.

“I don’t plan to.” The answer comes almost instantaneously; Connor doesn’t even so much as blink when he says it. Hank has to take a moment to actually register it. If Connor doesn’t plan to, then…

“Just little ol’ me, huh.” He mutters, more to himself than to Connor. Hank tries to sound flippant but Connor sounds so certain about it that the words come out more awed than anything else. He can’t deny how special it feels to know that he is the only one. It shouldn’t, but it does.

He reaches up to touch his own neck, absently realizing that Connor’s own hand isn’t there any more (when had he pulled away?) as he touches the mark that’s been left there. In this crazy world he’s been unwillingly thrown into it feels—comforting, to know that Connor is here. It helps him feel grounded. It’s… _nice_.

But that’s also his instincts talking—instincts that have been twisted around by Connor. Everything he’s learned and fought through his life tells him that he absolutely shouldn’t trust Connor at all.

The problem is that he does. He is trusting Connor even though he shouldn’t. But at the same time Connor didn’t have to tell him all of this shit and knowing that the possibility of freedom is available at least gives him something of a target to work towards. Even if he’s stuck as a vampire, being by himself instead of under somebody’s thumb means he’ll be free to do his own things and doesn’t have to be bound by whatever Connor wants from him. It’s not a lot, but it’s something.

He notices that Connor has been watching him this whole time. Hank glances over to him upon that realization, and when their gazes meet Connor tilts his head and smiles. He reaches over with the same hand from before and runs them through Hank’s hair this time, eventually coming into contact with the fingers that Hank already has buried over the back of his neck. He feels Connor brushing his fingers over his own, then a more insistent press as those fingers slider under his own and Connor ends up taking Hank’s hand into his.

He watches as Connor brings that hand over to him and leans in to plant a kiss on his knuckles, thumb brushing across them thereafter. “Just you,” he says, reconfirming Hank’s words, and Hank feels a rush of pride that he knows can only belong to Connor. 

Hank makes a face. “This whole—thing,” he starts, not really wanting to put a name to it because that leads to… a lot of other implications that he doesn’t want to consider right now. “How does it work? I can feel your thoughts, your emotions… and you can feel mine. Isn’t it, like, crazy invasive? I don’t want you in my head unless I can help it.” 

Instead of answering immediately Connor presses another kiss to his knuckles, then pulls away just enough to let his lips brush across the skin there when he does respond. “Sensing you is simply part of the bond that we share.” Connor says it the way anyone else would have said that the sky is blue and grass is green. “We’re always connected through it, and in turn to each other. As long as we share the same blood, there’ll always be a link.”

Sounds like there isn’t much Hank can do about it at all. He supposes at the very least it's more of a two way street rather than Connor having a one way window into his head. And admittedly, it's not _that_ bad having Connor’s presence in his mind. In a way it's comforting, and it's definitely better than Connor brainwashing him into accepting this. 

“Guess I’ll have to get used to this, then,” he mutters. Connor hums in return and presses one more kiss to the back of his hand before letting go, and the feelings that run through Hank as he reclaims his hand are a lot more conflicted than he’s willing to let himself admit. 

His other hand comes to rub over the spot where Connor had kissed, biting down a sigh. “Okay. Anything else I should know?”

Connor hums again, tilting his head. “We’ve covered most of the basics last night, but you’re free to ask anything else that comes to mind.” 

Hank blinks. Considering the fact that this is going to be… well, the rest of his eternity now, somehow Hank can’t help but feel like there should be something more. “I guess I was expecting a lot of—killing, or something. Like you teaching me how to use my powers.” It occurs to him at that point that Connor hasn’t even talked about that—or has he? Hank has a feeling that they had, but the memory of it feels fuzzy.

“Those will come eventually.” The smile on Connor’s face widens a fraction as he says that. “You’ve only just been turned, after all.”

Just turned… right. Hank finds himself staring at Connor once more, taking in the too-perfect line of his jaw, the attractive quirk of his lips and those big brown eyes. God, Connor is pretty—not to mention good in the sack too, if last night was of any indication. He’d be the type of guy Hank would have happily bedded more than once, back when he was alive and still in the scene. It’s such a shame that he’s a monster—the same monster that Hank is now.

That thought sends a flare of anger up in his gut. Going down those thoughts does nothing but serve a painful reminder of… well, everything. “I’m still not done being pissed at you about that, just so you know.” Just because they had a good time last night doesn’t really change the reality of what he has to deal with now. “I never asked to be ‘turned’ and I’m sure as hell not killing any innocent people.” He has to draw the line here and now; he may be forced to accept what Connor is to him now, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to roll over and just do whatever it is that Connor asks for. Especially if it involves killing people.

Connor tilts his head in the other direction. “That will not be a concern.” Hank can almost swear that the amusement in Connor’s voice gets more audible with every word. “Those do not usually come by in the work that I undertake for the Council.”

Hank frowns at that response, gaze narrowing. With an answer like that, it's all but baiting him to ask the question. He hates being dangled with something so obvious, but he can’t exactly just let the question go unanswered either. “Just what kind of work do you do?” Was Connor some kind of… guard or something? Fuck if Hank knows anything about what vampires did besides taking people off the streets and drinking their blood—he wasn’t even aware that they had actual _jobs_ until right now.

The smile on Connor’s face turns into that secretive look he had earlier, when he was talking about Midians—the one where it looks like he’s laughing at some joke that only Connor himself seems to get. “The Council calls upon my services when they require an efficient method to neutralize any and all targets that may pose a threat to their rule.” 

That’s… well. Hank definitely needs another moment to let that sink into his head, absently watching Connor reaching out once more to touch his chest. “So you’re a hitman.” A _vampire_ hitman, no less. That’s a hell of a thing to wrap his head around. Why would vampires need a hitman? It’s not as if they needed that if they were just after hunters that encroach on their territory—hell, a vampire like Connor is all but overkill if that’s the main intention. “And you kill… what? Whoever breaks the rules?”

Connor opts to not respond immediately, instead putting his attention to running his fingers into the nest of curls at Hank’s chest. Hank can’t quite stop the shivery sigh that escapes him from that touch, and Connor smiles again upon hearing that. “Whoever the Council deems necessary to terminate,” he finally says.

Hank can’t help but wonder if Connor had been sent to terminate him, but quickly dismisses the idea before it takes root. He can’t imagine himself being so dangerous that some fancy-ass vampires would think to send Connor to come and kill him. And if that actually happened to be the case, then Connor would have actually killed him instead of turning him. Feels like it’d go against the task given to him.

And speaking of things going against Connor— “Kinda seems like my whole _everything_ is getting in the way of your work,” Hank huffs out as he pulls his gaze away from the sight of Connor’s hand still on his chest. “You’re not seriously just planning on spending the whole day in bed here, right?” If anything, Hank really should have kicked Connor out of his bed a long while back. It’s definitely been something on the back of his mind but try as he might Hank just can’t seem to muster the strength to do it. The sex wasn’t bad, obviously, even if the whole being a monster thing pretty much goes against the latter half of his life. But Connor’s touch and the way he really seems to regard him as _attractive_ is hard to take for granted.

Fuck.

Connor lifts a shoulder and shrugs noncommittally, expression unconcerned. “My services are not called upon that frequently,” he replies, “And as you _are_ my First, I have an obligation to take care of you while you get settled in. You could call it something of a tradition.”

That’s a dodge if Hank ever saw one. But it's not like he can really say anything to counter that, since it's not as if he really knows much about vampires and whatever weird rules they operate on. “Right. Guess if you’re working for ‘em, tradition’s gotta matter for something.” Though he supposes wouldn’t have necessarily tried to object… logically he should get some time apart from Connor just so he can get his head on straight, but it's not as if he’s in a rush for anything, now. He's got forever. It’s only been one night, after all; there’s no way he can be used to all the changes that have come to his new life. Despite that, however…

“There’s gotta be more to my new… ‘undead life’ than just this.” Hank shifts to sit up properly, now, shrugging off Connor’s hand on his chest as he does so. The touch, as nice as it is, is also incredibly distracting, and Hank doesn’t want to be distracted with what he says next. 

He lets out a hiss of breath and runs a hand through his hair, glancing over to Connor and continuing. “I had a _life_ before this, Connor. All this—I mean, I get it. You… picked me up and you want me to be a part of things. But what happens when somebody finds out I’m dead and goes snooping around for who did it?” Sure, maybe he didn’t really have _friends_ , per se, but he had contacts. Lots of them. It’d be impossible to survive the hunter’s life for as long as he had without them.

As he speaks he sees Connor shifting as well, and by the end of his words Connor is all but plastered to his back, clearly undeterred in his attempts to touch Hank as much as possible. Once again Connor opts to not answer the question immediately, taking the time instead to nuzzle the back of his neck. 

“Let them come,” he says after a pause, and Hank can hear more than a latent hint of a threat in there. Connor doesn’t stop nuzzling him, but now there’s the smallest hint of fangs and Hank feels a shiver run down his spine at the brief sensation of it. “See if they dare to take you away from me.”

Hank takes a breath to steel himself and lets it out as a sigh. He wants to be annoyed but it's hard to focus on anything at all when Connor is nuzzling him like that—not to mention the touches. Connor’s been letting his hands wander up and down his body, touching his pudgy stomach like it’s something worth holding. Part of him had kind of expected that he’d somehow lose weight as a vampire, what with how they always looked like all fit and perfect. But that’s a thought for another day. “That’s not what I’m saying. I mean—if someone comes looking, that’d be their right. I _had_ a life. I’m dead now. Nobody I know is gonna be happy about this. You can’t just expect me to start over without giving me some kind of next steps here.”

Connor hums once more as he rubs his hands over Hank’s stomach and shifts all the way in to rest his chin on a shoulder. “I can go to your old residence and clean it up. Make it look like you decided to move on. That’s what you hunters tend to do, yes?”

That’s… not exactly a bad idea. Hank considers it, mulling the pros and cons in his mind. It feels disingenuous, but letting anyone know what actually happened to him is just opening them up to Connor’s wrath, based on how Connor had reacted later. It’d be easier to just take the bullet here. It’ll be better for everyone if he just… fades away.

Another sigh. “Yeah, okay. That’d be… good.”

Saying that somehow feels like the final nail in his less-than-proverbial coffin. Like it or not, the life he had is over. Now he’s just some vampire’s fancy new toy—said vampire’s first and favourite toy, but still his toy nonetheless. He can’t imagine that Connor would really ever treat him as an equal, no matter how nice he seems to be. He imagines what Connor is doing now is no better than petting a dog and giving it treats. Not exactly something to feel good about.

Connor makes another noise from the back of his throat. “I’ll do that later, then.”

Hank cranes his head backwards to look at Connor at that, not too sure if he heard that right. “...thanks,” he says after a moment’s silence. He’s pretty sure that Connor doesn’t necessarily have to do as he asks, but yet it sounds like Connor is perfectly willing to actually do it. It’s… weird, but he’ll take it.

Still, as nice as that gesture it there’s still something Connor has yet to answer. “So, you haven’t really explained—what’s next for me? Am I just gonna be your fuckbuddy until you get called to work? There’s gotta be more to this.” A reason. A goal. _Something_.

The silence after that question almost feels far too thick and oppressive. _Answer me, dammit,_ Hank wants to yell, but he feels Connor nuzzling the unscarred side of his neck and feels himself relaxing despite the situation. Fuck, but it's just hard to stay angry when Connor is touching him like this. 

Even as good as said touching is Hank isn’t _that_ distracted that he forgets what he wants to know. He’s about to speak up when Connor finally responds. “You will eventually have to be formally presented to the Council and the rest of the community here as my First. I suspect the Council will use this to trouble me with new responsibilities. I will guide you on your new powers, and you will accompany me when my services are called upon.”

Well, at least he finally fucking answered, even if sounds like a load of bull. Hank's gotta give him points for that. “Right, I remember you saying something about that.” Or he’s pretty certain that had been the case… a fair amount of last night feels like a blur to him now. But he knows it had been good and he had felt _safe_ , so there’s nothing for him to worry about. 

Hank blinks and focuses back onto the topic at hand, continuing. “At least you’re gonna show me how to use my powers. That’s, uh… I know how dangerous vamps can be.” How dangerous _he_ can be. Even after everything it still doesn’t feel real—except for the part where he’s laying in the arms of the monster who killed him, enjoying the touch on the scars that mark him as a creature of the night. A vampire. No longer human.

He swallows down the sigh before it can come out of him. “That helps.”

“It is of no trouble. All of this is within my duty as your sire.” Connor shifts from nuzzling to planting kisses on his neck instead as he says that. Just as with his touch, the feel of his lips sends pulses of warmth through his body, and it's only all too easy for Hank to sink deeper into that warmth. Stubbornness is the only thing that keeps him from doing so. “You are an extension of who I am. It would not reflect well on me if you are somebody who would fall so easily to anyone else.”

Huh. That sounds nice and all, but Hank can’t help but doubt if Connor really means it—especially considering what that entails. “You sure you wanna teach a monster hunter how to fight? I could turn around and kill you.”

...while he can very much _say_ it, Hank supposes it's a bit hard to give the threat any weight when he’s being cuddled and kissed by the very vampire who killed him. 

Connor certainly seems entirely unconcerned with what Hank had just said. “You put up a good fight when you were human,” he murmurs the words into the nape of his neck. “I’d love to see how you’d fare now that you are more.” If anything, it seems like Connor is actually… _interested_ , which is—well. Hank supposes he should have expected this, considering. 

“That’s what you’re into, huh?” No surprise, since Hank’s final moments of being human involved fighting the very vampire who turned him—and is now all but obsessed with him. He can't say he didn't see this coming. At least that means that Connor is willing to teach him, which is… good.

Hank glances back to look at him, his expression becoming serious. “You’ll have to show me. I don’t wanna lose control and do something I’ll regret.”

“I promised no barriers between us.” It takes Hank a moment to recall where he had heard those words. Yeah, he definitely said them last night, he’s pretty sure of it, but the exact specifics keep slipping out of his grasp. Hank frowns and tries to focus but ends up being distracted by the brush of Connor’s lips on the line of his jaw. Connor continues as Hank shivers into the sensation, eyelids fluttering. “Everything that I have, you too will eventually possess.”

It’s tempting—its really tempting to let that warm pleasure sink in, to let himself feel good again, but Hank has already allowed himself to indulge last night. That one moment of weakness is all he’ll allow himself to have. 

He reaches up with his hand and lightly shoves Connor’s shoulder, nudging for him to back off. “You’re trusting me with an awful lot here, Connor. You know I tried to kill you.” The usual reaction to that would be to kill him back—which, he supposes Connor _has_ done, but being turned and everything else on top of it feels like it should be something one shouldn’t be doing with the person who actively tried to chop your head off.

There’s a soft chuckle from Connor this time. “Everyone tries to kill me, Hank,” he says, right before finally pulling himself away from Hank after a few more repeated nudges. 

Hank watches as Connor shifts to sit at his side, speaking while he does so. “I just… I still don’t get it, Connor.” So sure, okay, there have been other people who came to kill Connor before, so that doesn’t really change anything, does it? Just what did Hank do differently to make Connor do all of this? “We fucked and that was great, but this… you trusting me and liking me, it’s gonna take more getting used to than the vampire thing, honestly.”

Connor, who’s settled down by the time Hank finishes speaking, only reacts to what he said by tilting his head ever so slightly to the side. He reaches up for his neck again, touching the marks there with a fondness that also tinges his voice as he replies. “You are a part of me, Hank. If I can’t even trust myself, then who else can I turn to?”

The words are probably supposed to have meaning, Hank supposes, but as it is right now… “I don’t really feel like that, no offense.” Sure, it may be true that they share blood and the way Connor touches the marks on his neck makes that affection all the more clear, but Hank just can’t wrap his head around it. “I… I know we have this bond. But being a part of you? That seems like a lot.” A hell of a lot, to be more precise. He doesn’t know what Connor’s endgame is here with all this, but it just feels… too much for somebody like him to be a part of.

For whatever reason that response gives Connor pause; he slowly shifts his head to tilt it the other way instead, blinking at the words as if having not expected it at all. If Hank didn’t know any better, he could swear that Connor almost seems _confused_ somehow.

“It is how it is,” he says, eventually. “It’s fine if you don’t believe it now. We can work on that.”

Connor doesn’t know how to give up, Hank can give him that much. It’s not exactly something Hank can disapprove of, but considering how this kind of concerns himself, Hank isn’t going to just leave things there either. “What if I don’t want to be?” he asks—a cursory question at best, but still worth asking. “You said you wouldn’t force me. Is this something I can turn down or what?”

There’s a blink from Connor at the question, but he responds promptly this time round. “In sharing my blood and being my progeny, you are already part of me,” he says, each word carefully measured. “Unless, of course, you mean to exercise your right to be released from my services. If you truly wish for that, I will not stop you.”

Hank purses his lips. Connor may say that, sure, but they both know the truth all too well. “I’ll die without you, won’t I?” There’s no point in sugarcoating it when he’s well aware of it. He’s fought plenty of freshly turned monsters in the past; they never last, too raw and too new with sensations and emotions that they can’t control. Hank suspects that without Connor, he would have been very much the same. And that, of course, only makes this whole thing all the shittier.

Connor nods in return—at least he isn’t trying to play coy about it, for better or for worse. “You will,” he confirms, and Hank can only let loose another sigh as he glances aside, rubbing the side of his face with his hand. Yeah, this whole thing was fucked right from the beginning. Was he really expecting anything else?

Dropping his hand Hank turns back to Connor, focusing his gaze properly on him once more. “Alright, look. You might be ready to put your life in my hands, but I barely know you.” Hell, not too long ago they were enemies on opposite sides, if he wanted to go there. “I can’t just trust you based on some gut instinct, you understand?” Especially when Hank doesn’t know if he can even trust his instincts any more.

Just like earlier Connor doesn’t seem bothered by what Hank’s said. He inclines his head in acknowledgement before answering. “As I have said, I do not expect your trust so easily. But even then, my trust in you has already been given, for you are my progeny.”

He says it as if it's so incredibly simple, but to Hank everything about this is far from that. Connor may keep saying that, but there’s no way for Hank to be sure if he will actually follow. All he can do is to hope that Connor keeps to his word. “Alright, then I guess you’re stuck with me.” 

Connor smiles at those words, pleased for some odd reason, though Hank doesn’t get to dwell on it because Connor is leaning in to kiss him and Hank is _definitely_ weak for these gestures of affection. He sighs against Connor’s lips when the kiss ends, unable to stop himself from grimacing as he pulls away. Fuck, just one night and he’s already totally whipped. It’s all Connor’s fault for being so… so attractive and smelling so good. It really would be so much easier to be a dick to him if he wasn’t being so damn _nice_. 

Seeing how he’s not really making an effort to hide his expression he expects something bad from Connor, but for some reason he only seems to be more amused; his eyes shine with mirth as he looks at Hank after pulling away from their kiss. “I’ve kept you up long enough. You must be hungry,” he says before sliding out of bed.

Hank blinks at the change of topic—as well as the fact that Connor’s suddenly out of bed now. “I, uh. I mean, I guess?” Now that Connor’s mentioned it Hank can certainly feel… something. It’s hard to really describe it in words. It’s hunger, but also far different from the kind of hunger that he’s used to. This new hunger burns in his stomach as well as his throat, making his skin itch with discomfort. Rather than a hollowness in his stomach it feels more like a thirst that emcompasses his entire body, a craving that can only be sated by one thing only. Maybe Connor had been holding it back for his sake, but he certainly isn't anymore.

It’s impossible to tear his gaze away from Connor at this point in time so Hank doesn’t even bother to try. He simply keeps watch as Connor walks over to the table set in the middle of the room. It’s only then that Hank realiza that the table isn’t empty; there’s a metal bucket set on top of it, the surface gleaming with condensation. Connor reaches into the bucket and Hank hears the crackling of ice from inside it. So there’s something in there to be kept chilled… but what?

Hank gets his answer pretty quickly; he sees the bag once Connor picks it out from bucket and the red liquid that is held within. He can’t smell it but the label printed on it is enough to tell him what it is. _Blood._

Connor saunters back to him, though rather than sitting next to him like before Connor apparently decides to slide onto his lap instead, the smile on his face turning impish. With the pack of blood brought this close to him the hunger inside of Hank expands, gnawing on every corner of his control, making his fangs ache and his eyes burn. God, he hates this.

Hank struggles to keep his face neutral, but the crack in his voice as he speaks makes it pretty clear how hungry he feels right now. “You gonna hand those over or do I gotta put on a show to earn ‘em or something?”

The smile on Connor’s face widens just a fraction at that question. “No, this is for me,” he responds.

Well, sure, he's hungry as fuck but Hank can roll with that, even if it still leaves him with several questions. Before he can start asking any of them Connor brings the wrist of his free hand up to his mouth and everything inside of Hank comes to a screeching halt, all senses suddenly on high alert. It’s all he can do to stare, already transfixed by the sight, and the gaze that Connor sends back to him in return is electric.

“Fuck,” he mumbles to himself, unable to stop the curse from slipping out when Connor goes ahead and bites into his own wrist. It should not be in any way attractive even in the slightest, but the moment he smells Connor’s blood in the air and sees the spill of crimson across his pale, perfect skin Hank can feel his mouth already starting to water. God, he’s pathetic. It’s ridiculous how easily and quickly his body _wants_ to bite and taste Connor like this, so inhuman and crazy. He should have more restraint than this—

Connor brings his bleeding wrist right up to Hank’s mouth, and the scent of his blood overpowers every other coherent thought in his mind. “This is for you,” he hears Connor say, and the words triggers something within him, like a switch being flipped. He moves all at once, reaching up to clamp his hands around Connor’s arm to keep it in place so that he can start lapping up the blood from his skin.

He can feel Connor’s fondness growing with every drop of blood that Hank swipes away with his tongue, warming something low in his gut. It encourages him to continue, to desire for _more_ , and that’s all Hank needs for him to bite down into Connor’s flesh. Even more blood floods into his mouth and Hank moans from the back of his throat at just how _good_ all of this is. The warm, perfect metallic taste of Connor’s blood is a balm to the hunger that Hank now knows for sure was being held back all this time by the presence of his sire. 

Connor’s warm approval wraps around his mind, and fondness tinges his voice as it echoes in Hank’s mind. _Drink up as much as you need, my blood._ He hears the faint crinkle of something plastic after those words but he can’t be bothered to try and figure out that sound when there’s something much better taking up all of his attention. Hank sucks from the wound hungrily, slurping and purring as he continues to sate himself on his sire’s blood. It tastes so _perfect_ , so right and sweet and alive that it blocks out all thought in his mind, reducing him to nothing more than creature of want and hunger, driven by the single need to drink just as his sire has told him to do.

After a while Hank hears another crinkle of plastic, followed by the quiet smack of something dropping to the floor—then there’s Connor’s hand on the top of his head, petting him gently as fingers slide into his hair, combing through the strands. The soothing gesture sends more of that pleasant warmth sinking through his skin and heats up the rest of his body. Strange how he never noticed just how _cold_ he felt until he started drinking, but every gulp of Connor’s blood sends another pulse of warmth though him, making his chest rumble with contentment. 

His sire purrs in response, stroking down the length of his hair, and Hank feels a rush of warm, happy affection at being able to please him. It’s moments like these where Hank can truly feel like Connor is indeed _his_ blood and his sire. His master. His lips and tongue and fangs only know the taste of his blood and he wishes it could be that way forever.

Connor strokes his hair a few more times, then slowly starts to let his hand wander down to his neck. His fingers brush against the marks at his neck, and just like every other time it elicits a shiver through his body, so good that his eyelids flutter and he groans against his sire’s skin.

The reaction causes Connor to chuckle, and he feels his sire leaning in, nuzzling into his hair. _Needy,_ he hears his sire say, amusement more than evident in his voice. _But that’s okay. I’m always here for you._

Hank feels warmth rushing to his face at the words. He knows that Connor is only teasing but it doesn’t make it any less embarrassing to be called out nevertheless. Still, he continues to drink since he is still hungry, though he drags his tongue over his own bite to try and tease back, something in him thrilling when he feels Connor shivering under his fangs ever so slightly, a small sliver of his pleasure peeking through their bond.

 _Asshole,_ he returns, trying to sound annoyed, but the way his chest continues to rumble with contented pleasure easily mitigates the heat of his response. With all the attention that Connor is lavishing onto him it's hard to not feel warm and safe under his sire’s touch. He should hate how involuntary all of these feelings are, but when he’s drinking blood from his sire it's hard to feel any kind of shame for something like that. Not when his instincts and everything else inside of him is telling him otherwise.

All Connor does is hum, and Hank feels him shifting closer so that their bodies would have been pressed flush to one another had it not been for his arm in the way. But just the fact that he can be this close with his sire has a part of him thrilling, so thankful and happy that his sire is so kind to grant somebody like him both his blood as well as his attention.

Hank doesn’t know how long he keeps on drinking, but eventually he does begin to feel full. While he can still take more, the rational part of him (which has been quiet until now) tells him that he’d be hurting Connor if he drank too much from him. And while yes, that same part of him isn’t entirely fond of Connor, Hank still has never been the kind of person who’d hurt somebody when they’re clearly helping him, or even needlessly cause pain to them even if they might deserve it.

Connor did this to him. He’s in this state now because of Connor. Those are the two immutable facts of his life now. Connor deserves whatever comes for him… but he has been helpful and accommodating and also really good in bed so the very least that Hank can do is to try and extend some common courtesy his way. 

Mustering up all the self-control he can find, Hank attempts to make himself stop drinking… only to find that he can’t. Hank feels a leadened weight drops to the pit of his stomach. His very body is working against him again, unwilling to move or even budge in the slightest, continuing it's single-minded quest to fill himself entirely on Connor’s blood.

It’s terrifying to know that he can be like this, and that fear edges into his voice as Hank speaks through their bond. _I… I can’t stop._ This is exactly what he was so worried about; this is how he could end up hurting somebody if he wasn’t careful enough. If he couldn’t control himself.

 _You don’t need to stop._ Hank feels a kiss being pressed to the top of his head as Connor responds, his free hand stroking through his hair once again. _You will not hurt me from this. I have more than enough blood to share between us._

Well, he supposes that explains why Connor had that pack of blood earlier. But it doesn’t make him feel much better. He grumbles, frustrated at his inability to stop even as he continues, encouraged by his sire. While it’s nice to know that Connor will be fine, it's more of the principle of the thing that he’s concerned with. Hank has already put so much of himself into Connor’s hands and having to place yet another thing stings more than he’s willing to admit. It’s frustrating to feel how little control he has over himself, but considering this is only his second night as a vampire it’s understable. 

It just really fucking _sucks_.

 _I hate not having control,_ he says before he can really stop himself. That’s something he certainly wouldn’t ever let himself say aloud, but in his head it’s easier to express the thought. And if Connor just so happened to hear it… well. Them’s the breaks.

Judging by the soft chuckle that Connor lets out, it's easy enough to figure out if Connor did hear him. _It has not been even two moons since you first woke up. Expecting such a level of control at this point in time would be foolish. In time I will teach you control, but for now you will need all the nourishment you can get._

He continues to stroke through his hair, and admittedly the touch does help to soothe away the bite of his frustration. It doesn’t quite stop him from grumbling, however. Not being able to control himself makes him feel—well, not human, he supposes. He’s had over fifty years living his life in his body before any of this, and despite all the aches and the pains that getting older entailed, he still kinda liked his body for how it was. And now even that has been taken away from him.

 _How long am I gonna be like this?_ he asks after a while more, still drinking from Connor. Even as aware as he is Hank still can’t pull himself away from Connor no matter how much he wants to—not when the taste of his blood is so divine, better than anything he’s ever had while human, filling him with warmth and fire. The way Connor keeps stroking his hair makes him want to purr in contentment as well, which is a hell of a thought to have but Hank’s just going to attribute that to his new… status.

 _Your body will know where it's had its fill._ Connor shifts from stroking his head to patting it instead now, which is about just as nice. But not nice enough to fully distract Hank from the fact that Connor didn’t really answer his question.

It is tempting to just keep on drinking from Connor—especially when it just feels so comfortable to have his sire so close to him and being able to have this. But there has to be a limit to this, and Hank definitely doesn’t want to find out the hard way. _How… how long until I can control it?_

 _It differs for everyone,_ comes the response from Connor. _But with how strong you are…_

He trails off, and Hank feels the warmth of his hand sliding down to rest at the nape of his neck and squeezes gently. Hank feels himself responding instantly; the death grip he had on Connor’s arm slackens, and Connor is able to pull his wrist away from him. _Not long at all, I suspect._

Hank stares at the wound as it retreats, licking his lips as his fangs draw back enough to allow him to speak properly once more. And there is something on the tip of his tongue, words that he had every intention of saying, but he’s far too distracted by the way Connor’s own gaze is now fixated on the wounds on his wrist. 

_Cleaner than last time,_ he says after a brief pause. _Good._ He brings his wrist up to his own lips and Hank watches as Connor casually licks at his wound, the sight alone almost enough to have the hunger start stirring within him again.

It takes a good few moments before Hank finally regains enough semblance of mind to speak up. “I don’t really want to get used to it, but getting worse ain’t a fucking choice.” This instance had been more than enough to show him how bad it can get. He doesn’t want to become one of those creatures who attacks innocent people if he can help it. If he has to do this and his body requires him to drink blood, then at the very least he can try and own it. He’s neither young enough nor dumb enough to assume that denial is going to help his case.

Connor licks his wrist a few more times before stopping, and he lowers his hand down as he glances up to Hank with a blink. “We can make that the first focus when I begin to instruct you.”

That’s certainly a good first step. Hank nods to show his agreement; it sounds like an important skill, and lines up perfectly with his own personal goals. The sooner he can learn control over himself, the better.

In fact, it would be nice if they even start right now. Hank glances down at himself, finally taking stock of the fact that he is still, indeed, naked. Probably a good idea to change that before doing anything else. “Hey, uh, I can’t wait to get started and all, but where did you magic our clothes to? Would be nice to have them back, unless we really are gonna fuck all day.”

Hank had said that clearly as a joke, but Connor obviously doesn’t know a joke even when it smacks him in the face. He casts an inquisitive look back to Hank in return, one eyebrow raised. “Do you want to fuck all day? I can’t say that I’m terribly opposed to the idea.” There’s a smile on his face as he says that—a smile that easily implies one too many things that Hank definitely did not intend to go to but here they were anyway.

He makes a face. “I was _kidding_.” Well, mostly. Sort of. Mostly he’s trying to take in the fact that Connor actually sounds like he would have taken him up on it. “But seriously, I didn’t know you could do that with the clothes and the, uh… lube.” At least that part he’s pretty sure did actually happen. Hank certainly hasn’t seen the usual pattern of discarded clothes on the floor, at any rate.

Amusement dances in Connor’s eyes as he leans in and kisses him briefly. Hank can’t help but lean in regardless, letting out a wordless murmur when Connor pulls away with a smile. 

“You could say it’s something unique to me,” Connor says after he pulls away, still smiling. “You can do it as well, with enough time.”

Hank blinks at those words, unable to fully hide his surprise about that. “Seriously?” All his years of hunting monsters—especially vampires—and he’s never seen any of them do the things that Connor has done last night. When they had fought he had just thought that Connor was a strong vampire, but now he isn't entirely sure. Maybe he’s something else entirely. “Guess it’s no wonder I didn’t stand a chance against you.”

“You fared better than most,” he returns, shifting closer to Hank. The smile and expression on his face turns into something fond that Hank only gets to see for a brief moment before Connor leans in to kiss him again. _And now you are mine._

There is intent behind the kiss that Connor gives him this time; Hank can feel it from the way Connor purrs out his words, how his fingers slip down from his hair to his jaw and neck. It’s impossible to deny how weak he is to Connor’s touch—just hearing those words and feeling the way those fingers trace and caress the mark on his neck makes him shiver, a spark of something hot and urgent that rolls down his spine and settles low in his gut.

 _Not like anybody else would want me, pal._ Maybe he’s been lonely for so long that he doesn’t wholly mind the thought of another fuck with the monster that turned him. Maybe Connor’s influence is already taking hold of him somehow. There are so many maybes to consider but Hank can’t think past the pleasure slowly clouding over his mind. Even though they already had a round last night it's just hard to take this for granted after only knowing his own hand for so many years. 

They kiss for a while more until Connor pulls away to look at him. There’s a strange gleam in Connor’s eyes that Hank can’t quite place where he’s seen before, but he doesn’t dwell too long on it—not when he can feel Connor’s desire for him rising and Hank feels himself responding back in turn. 

Connor smiles again and leans back in, and even in his head Connor’s voice comes in a intimate whisper. _Nobody else matters. All I desire is you._

Hank doesn’t tear his gaze away from Connor, far too entranced by the gleam in Connor’s eyes. _You’re so fucking weird,_ he says as Connor shifts ever closer. What with everything he knows about vampires, he thinks he can safely label Connor as that. A weird vampire and a weird kid, even if Connor is definitely way older than him.

All Hank gets in response is the minute widening of Connor’s smile before he closes the distance between them. He nips at his bottom lip for a brief moment—the only warning Hank gets before he kisses him once more, this time deepening the kiss almost instantly. Hank all but melts into the kiss, reaching around Connor’s waist to pull him flush against his body. It’s ridiculous how Connor makes him feel so young and restless like he’s a teenager all over again, but that’s probably become of the whole freshly-turned into a fledgling vampire thing. Even now it's still hard to think it's real, but what he can at least know to be real is the heat of Connor’s mouth against his own, so good and amazing. 

Connor licks into his mouth and Hank does the same in return, pleasure spiking through him as he tastes blood from his sire’s mouth. Remnants from the blood that Connor has drunk from the bags—they’re nowhere as delicious as Connor’s own blood, but the fact that he can taste this off his sire affects him more than he could have expected. He can’t help but try to lick deeper, making a pleased sound from the back of his throat when he feels Connor’s tongue pressing up against his own teeth and fangs as his sire shivers and rubs up against him, his cock already starting to harden from where it’s pressed onto his stomach.

Even if most of last night is still lost in a bit of a haze Hank can’t deny that Connor _had_ been pretty good to him last night; it’s hard to not want to return the favor. He slowly slides down a hand between them and grabs a hold of Connor’s cock, ignoring the voice in his head that whispers how serving his sire is to be expected. This is nothing like that. He’s just doing this to repay what Connor did for him.

He hears Connor moaning into his mouth, feels the way his cock instantly hardens further the moment Hank’s got his hand wrapped around him. _You like that?_

 _Yes._ Connor’s answer is almost instantaneous; he begins jerking his hips into Hank’s hand without preamble, all too eager for any kind of friction he can get. _Touch me. Bring me to climax with your hands._

Hank chuckles at the words. _We gotta work on your dirty talk._ Though he certainly can’t deny how much he likes this. Every moment that Connor spends dragging his tongue over his mouth sends another hot spark of pleasure down his spine and into his gut, making him want it more. He tightens his grip around Connor and starts stroking him slow, watching the way his sire’s eyes slide shut and how he moans louder than before, his cock already hard and throbbing. Hank has to admit—it’s a hell of a power trip to see a beautiful, strong vampire like Connor melt in his hands.

 _I’d rather think talk would not be necessary for this part of events._ It’s almost a shame that they can talk without moving their mouths, because Hank would have liked to hear how Connor would have sounded like there and then. But this, too, is fine; Connor already looks so good like this that Hank can’t help but stare, the fact that he can touch and please his sire like this making him feel so much more alive than before. It’s hard to describe the feeling, but Hank just feels it as a certainty—how Connor feels so vibrant and enticing like this. It makes him want more.

 _Maybe I like hearing you lose your cool, Connor._ Hank smirks against Connor’s lips as he says that. His breathing comes out louder than he expects as he drags his thumb up and down the underside of Connor’s cock, relishing the way his sire shudders and pulls away in order to moan aloud. With how big his hands are Hank has no problem keeping Connor in his large, tight grip, and Connor’s body seems to give another shiver at that realization. _Big, strong vampire melts in his First’s hands… nobody else gets to see you like this, that right?_

Connor blinks a few times, the color of his eyes switching from brown to a familiar shade of red. The sight of it sends a wave of heat through Hank, though before he can do anything else Connor distracts him by leaning back in to nip at his lips. _Only because I want this,_ he hears his sire say. _Otherwise you’d be on your back, and I’d fuck you until you couldn't even remember your name._

Those aren’t empty words, Hank knows—Connor, for all that he is bending to Hank’s whims, would have no problem at all in controlling him. He knows this as fact because he’s felt it for himself. But if he could Hank would rather not feel it right now and stay as himself. It’s definitely a much better alternative, for all that he’s doing Connor a solid here; and it isn’t rushed or overwhelming the way it had been last night. This time he can do this _consciously_ —because he wants to, and because Connor’s a great fuck.

 _Maybe if you buy me dinner first,_ he responds, still casually stroking his sire’s cock. 

He feels the amusement from Connor even before his sire replies. _I have been giving you dinner,_ he says, and well, Hank certainly can’t deny that. He feels his grip starting to get slicker as Connor starts to leak precome. Hank increases the speed of his strokes without thinking twice about it and sees Connor shivering at it, eyes flaring crimson. 

_**More.**_ There’s a power in that word that Hank can’t resist this time—if he even bothered to try in the first place. He feels his own eyes flaring in response, every part of him all too eager to follow his sire’s command. Anything to make him happy.

Hank drags his hand up Connor’s cock, pressing his thumb up at the head and down on the silt to spread the precome over the rest of him. His sire is so desirable right now, so hot and good with the way he moves and responds to his hands. It’s enticing enough that Hank can feel his own arousal beginning to stir, but it's easy to ignore his own growing needs in order to better focus on his sire. Connor is everything.

There’s nothing else to think about, nothing else more important for him to focus on beyond his sire’s pleasure. Hank keeps up the pace of his hand on Connor’s cock, soaking in his moans, the way he shivers and shakes, the potency of the pleasure that bleeds into his own. It’s all so good, _Connor_ is so good and he wants—he wants his master to—

He whines softly when Connor suddenly jerks away from him, his hand coming to a stop from the abruptness of it all. As distracted as he is Hank only barely manages to register the hiss that comes from Connor. He feels his sire’s power washing over him for a second, intending to keep him safe—but then it ebbs away, pulling back from him. The loss of it makes Hank lean in, moving his hand again so that he can get back Connor’s attention—only to feel Connor reaching down to grab his wrist, stopping him in his tracks.

Hank nearly starts to make a sound of protest, wondering why Connor would want him to stop like this—but like the flick of a switch the fog of lust lifts from him, leaving Hank dazed as he attempts to gather himself back together. He was… he and Connor were making out, and then… 

“Well, I’m listening now.” Connor’s voice. Snappish and irritated, for some reason. “Why did you come back down?”

“I would not have if it wasn’t necessary.” Another voice, this one vaguely familiar. Hank forces himself to shake off the remnants of the haze still floating around his head and focuses himself back to the present. Everything slowly sharpens back to full clarity, and right there, standing by the bed once more is—

“Christ,” Hank can’t help but mutter a swear when he realizes that he’s staring at Niles who’s apparently decided to make a return from fucking nowhere. It only gets worse when Hank realizes that his hand is still on Connor’s dick—Connor who is his _brother_ , and who is still as naked as before. And probably still aroused, if the boner that Hank has on his own end if of any indication (even if it is already starting to flag due to Niles’s presence).

Niles’ gaze sharpens when he catches Hank staring at him, and Hank feels himself flushing with shame over being caught—in more ways than one. He quickly reaches over and yanks the sheets over his and Connor’s lap, for the little good it does for them now. Christ, he needs to get a hold of himself; he doesn’t have the time to fuck around like this.

He can almost hear Niles’s eye roll from where he stands before he turns his gaze back to Connor. “Your fledgling can attend to you later,” he says, “The Council has requested for your immediate presence.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [springtime of life's erotic hell](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z3D45Uw6H4c).
> 
> WOW THIS SURE TOOK A WHILE HUH... I did finish writing this chapter at like the very beginning of December, but life kept happening among other things but IT'S FINALLY HERE. Special thanks to **jj** for helping me beta this chapter! And **Jan** , as always, for being the eternal cool friend on this Hankcon ride with me and continuing to work her magic to help me make this AU and fic happen. :D
> 
> Now that NaNo season is over hopefully I should get back into the swing of things now! Though I have some other outstanding stuff to finish writing first... but I'm definitely excited for the next chapter since things start to pick up from there. With luck, it'll be done sometime in January! Thanks to everyone for being so patient while waiting for this chapter, even if its mostly talking in the end lmao. I did not realize how much talking there is until I was writing it.
> 
> As always, feel free to follow be on Twitter **@tasogareika** if you want to hear my ramblings about this AU when it happens and various other Hankcon stuff I babble about. Also many, many retweets.  <3 Thank you all for your support on this fic thus far, it really means a lot to me. Hope you all have a very happy holiday season/end of 2018 and I'll probably see you guys back in 2019 with more hankcon!!


	5. secret karma serenade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Council converges. The topic on the agenda: Connor, and his newly sired First.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** _*breathes in*_ Heavy Dom/Sub dynamics, implied/referenced brainwashing, bloodplay, painplay, orgasm delay/denial/control, dirty talk, lots of begging. Very extremely dubious consent (Hank consents to the sex, but not to the degree that Connor takes it), a good amount of mind manipulation at play here, and power imbalance is at an all time high. 
> 
> This chapter is gonna get wild.
> 
> As dumb as it may be to say this here, please do not attempt to become a vampire and/or do anything in this chapter with your partner for sex. Not only is it highly unethical, it is also very rude. Consent is very important, and also very sexy. This has been a Taso/KB PSA.

Vampires, Hank thinks to himself, are incredibly extra.

It’s not exactly a novel discovery or anything like that; even before all of this, that fact is something he’s well aware of. The things he’s seen during the few times he went to strike a vampire in its own lair pretty much told him all that he needed to know about them: vampires are incredibly self-centered, have no regard for anything else besides their own, and are incredibly fond of theatrics.

So far, Connor’s been checking all of the boxes in a row. If not from the way he acted—petulant and annoyed—after Niles' interruption of their… activities, then certainly the very large and empty mansion they had walked out of, followed by the limousine that had been waiting for them by the front doors of said mansion.

The very limousine that Hank is sitting in now, actually. He can’t help but feel more than a little out of place in here even though present company is currently only made up of Connor and Niles. As much as Hank wants to say that it's because of how extra everything has felt thus far since Niles' interruption, it could just as easily be due to the fact at how the both of them are dressed. From the fancy coat with its upturned collar to the shirts they wear, Connor and Niles could almost pass as identical copies of each other. If it wasn’t for the scarf sitting around Connor’s neck or Niles' clear preference for darker colors Hank is pretty certain he wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart.

Well, no. That’s a lie. Hank can certainly _feel_ the difference between the two of them—when he looks at Niles he senses almost nothing at all, but when he so much as glances in Connor’s direction… the bond between them is right there, all too present and noticeable. It makes Hank want to turn away just as much as he wants to lean in and feel even more. His body wants him to have a lot of things ever since waking up in Connor’s arms, wants that Hank is doing his best to actively deny. He’s already let himself have it last night. That should be enough. It _should_ be enough, and yet…

He catches Connor looking over to him and Hank quickly turns away, looking out of the tinted windows of the limo. Just that brief glance at Connor is enough to remind him of the power that he seems to wield so casually. Those shadows from last night had made their appearance again when they were getting ready to head out as per Niles' announcement, sliding out from underneath Connor to wrap around him and shape the very clothes he wears right now from that same darkness. They provided Hank with his own clothes as well, leaving them in a neatly folded stack at the end of his bed after melting away from the packaged oval shape they had coalesced into.

It’s more than a little unsettling, to be wearing the very same clothes that he had died in, and even more so to know that all the blood on it has magically disappeared, though he supposes he can’t really complain. Going around in bloodied clothing isn’t exactly something he wants to do any time soon, even with his different… status.

Speaking of different, though—it may only have been one night and some, but Hank is quickly picking up on the fact that Connor is really not like any vampires he’s ever seen or heard of. All the years in the business and he’s never once heard of a vampire who could control shadows in the manner that Connor does. He had remarked about it briefly when he had seen the way Connor used the shadows to dress himself, more than a little spooked by the display. _Christ. Please tell me you’re like. Moving your clothes and that they aren’t part of your skin or something._

Hank doesn’t exactly know what kind of response he had expected from Connor here, but to hear him say _The forms of man have no meaning on me,_ as an answer is definitely low on the list. Hank would have asked to elaborate more, but he had been more distracted on the fact that he was actually going to go out. Out of this room, this whole… place. For this meeting. This meeting, that Connor apparently wanted him to come along with.

That, too, had been another thing that caught Hank by surprise. After Niles had stepped in to interrupt them and inform Connor, Hank had simply assumed that Connor would just go on without him. Instead Connor told Hank to dress up and come along with him, and Hank… didn’t really have any reason to say no. Not that he really ever had a choice in the matter.

Niles, on his end, seems to be unsurprised at Connor’s decision to bring him along. All he did was to narrow his eyes at Hank when the two of them arrived at where the limousine had been waiting, studying Hank for half a second before muttering, _At least he’s dressed decently, if not appropriately,_ and then proceeded to get into the vehicle.

Hank rolled his eyes at that entire display. God, what an asshole. And here he was starting to maybe feel bad for the guy for having to put up with Connor. He’s a fucking prick.

For better or for worse Niles has opted to remain silent since then. Hank turns his gaze to see him staring out of the window at the other side of the limousine, having chosen to seat himself far away from both Connor and him. Hank doesn’t know if it's because of him or if it's just something that Niles does, but he also doesn’t particularly care to find out. 

“I do know this is all rather abrupt.” Hank looks over to Connor when he hears him speak. Their gazes meet, and Connor's smile widens ever so slightly. “But once this is dealt with, we won’t be interrupted any more. I give my word.”

Being interrupted isn’t exactly high on the list of concerns that Hank has about this entire situation, if he has anything to say about it. If anything, there are a lot more _other_ things that have his attention, but they’re also things that Hank isn’t exactly keen on talking about with somebody like Connor. Things like, say, currently being driven to a room full of Midians after thinking not too long ago that something like that would be his worst nightmare. On the list of ‘things that would get any hunter killed’, _one_ Midian is basically at the top of the list; never mind several.

Hank sucks in a breath he doesn’t quite need and gazes out through the windows once more. Just like he had noticed earlier, his ability to see at night has increased to the point where he’s seeing things as well as he would have under daylight. Not that… he’d ever really be able to see anything in the sun ever again, now.

He feels a lump forming in his throat at that thought. He knows that he’s a vampire, sure, but it hasn’t fully quite sunk into him yet. How could it? This is only the second night and the first had been… well. A fair amount had happened, that much he can say. But nothing from back then and earlier has given him any indication on how the other nights of his life is going to be like. Surely there had to be more than what’s happened thus far. Hank can’t imagine the rest of his (un)life being like… this.

Biting down a sigh, Hank turns back to face Connor. “So, exactly how far is this whole Council bullshit? They sign your paychecks, I’m guessing?” Even if Hank doesn’t want to ask the most immediate question that he has, there are still some other things that would help him if he knew about them. Staying quiet probably would have been the smarter thing to do, but there are too many questions bubbling in his mind. If he has to go along with all of this, then he’d better at least have _some_ answers.

Connor blinks once, as if surprised by the question, but before he opens his mouth to respond Niles interrupts him with a curt answer of his own. “We have no need for human currency.” The tone in Niles' voice here suggests that he has more than a few opinions about Hank and his question, but Hank pointedly ignores it. 

“I dunno. I mean, hell, you guys could trade in fucking gold for all I know.” Hank shrugs as he replies, not even bothering to look over in Niles' direction. Prick doesn’t deserve it anyway for how fucking rude he’s been. Any possible sympathy that Hank might have had for him is now long gone. 

Connor makes something of an amused sound from the back of his throat. “Paychecks is a very human term… but yes, I suppose you can say that. In a sense. The Council ensures that neither of us are unsheltered. In exchange we come to call when our services are required.”

Services… right. The whole hitman thing. Did this mean that Niles is doing same thing as Connor? Did the Council require so much firepower that they’d have two vampires out to hunt shit? Especially considering the fact that vampires were more or less the apex predators of the food chain—Hank just can’t see why it would be necessary to have something like this. It doesn’t really make sense.

He supposes he can try and figure that out later, once he has some time for himself. But for now… “Unsheltered? You mean they gave you the mansion we just walked out of?”

A nod from Connor. “Yes. It is, according to Niles, the biggest place that they will grant to us.”

“We literally do not need that much space,” Niles mutters, almost tired, from his side of the limousine. Hank blinks as he hears those words and rephrases it in his mind. An old argument, maybe? 

He frowns, and then remarks. “That _is_ a fucking huge place just for the two of you.”

Connor tilts his head to the side ever so slightly. “Well, there is also you, now,” he returns, words so simple and easy like they're just a fact. Which… he guesses it is, but at the same time it’d be nice if he had a choice in that… again.

Hank does his best to not make a face. “Right.” He darts his gaze briefly towards Niles, who is still staring out through the window on his end. “So, uh, Niles doesn’t…?” _have a First_ , he wants to ask, but the words don’t quite manage to come out. Mostly because Hank isn’t sure if he wants to hear the answer.

At least Connor manages to pick up on it. “No, Niles hasn’t sired any fledglings of his own. He says that—”

“—they are tedious, needy and require far too much attention.” Niles interrupts once more, and this time he does look over to Hank. Unlike Connor’s big brown eyes that feel like they can see right through him, Niles' cool steel gaze is far more impassive and unreadable. 

Still, even then Hank doesn’t let himself falter from Niles' unblinking stare. He looks back just as hard, and somehow manages to find the words to speak. “So you work for the Council and they just give you food and lodging? Sounds like indentured servitude to me.”

He sees one of Niles' eyebrows twitching in response, but the silence continues to stretch on. Connor glances between them both of them with some degree of interest on his face, though his gaze eventually settles on Niles. A moment after that Niles abruptly breaks the impromptu staring contest, opting to look at the window once again. Hank lets out a breath he doesn't need. Christ, now he has to deal with an asshole brother on top of everything else. What a mess.

Before he can do anything else, however, Connor suddenly reaches out to take one of his hands and holds it in his own. A thumb starts to trace idle circles on the inside of his wrist, and Hank feels his attention slowly focusing on that one point of contact. Said focus only breaks when Connor speaks to him. “This isn't a formal presentation, but the Council will have their eyes on you all the same,” he says, voice soft. “I request that you keep to heart the instructions I say next.”

“...alright.” There’s a somewhat hesitant nod from Hank when he responds to that after a few moments of silence. As much as he tries to hide it, Hank can’t deny that he’s more than a little nervous about all of this. He obviously doesn’t want to die, and the thought of having to walk into a room full of Midians pretty soon is definitely unsettling. But he can’t exactly back away either, so all Hank can do is deal the cards that’s been dealt to him. “Lay it on me.”

Connor tilts his head again, humming softly, seemingly taking a second for himself before he actually speaks. “Always stand behind me. Hands should be behind your back unless I tell you otherwise. Do not speak, even when spoken to—unless it's me. Nobody should attempt to taste you, but let me know if they do and I will come in to handle the situation.” A brief pause. “Also, try not to respond outwardly to any external stimuli, if you can, though that isn’t a hard and fast rule. I will be around to protect you.”

Hank stares at the list of things that Connor has just said, his mind needing a moment to digest all of those words. “Jesus, it sounds like you want me to act like…” Like some sort of zombie slave, but is that really of any surprise? He’s seen his share of fledglings, after all; he knows what they’re _supposed_ to be like. Is this what Niles had meant when he said that Hank wasn’t ‘appropriate’?

Jesus fucking christ. Everything about this is so fucked.

He gives Connor a look. “So, should I be wearing some kinda suit with a number tag on it or something if I’m supposed to be your personal slave?” He tries for sarcasm but the disgust in his voice is far more evident. Hank can’t even hide his distaste for this whole thing even if he tried. Not that he won’t do it, exactly, since he doesn’t have any intention on dying—at least, not in this fashion. But there’s no denying that this sucks a lot. Maybe offing himself might still be the less painful option here, despite his initial thoughts.

“If you belonged to any other vampire, perhaps.” Somehow it sounds like there’s a faint amount of distaste in Connor’s response there as well, which is… somewhat reassuring. It’s nice to know that Connor apparently doesn’t seem to be fond of it too. “But you are my First.”

Hank blinks. The way Connor phrases those words makes it seem like they mean something, though it doesn’t seem like Connor is going to elaborate any further on it. He simply strokes the inside of his wrist one more time and speaks again. “You are my First, and I will be there for you.”

It probably shouldn’t be relaxing to hear that but Hank feels himself easing up nonetheless. For what it's worth, at least it seems like Connor will have his back, and that much Hank can appreciate even with the tenuous relationship they have with each other right now. “Alright, I’m trusting you.”

Connor smiles at the words, clearly pleased to have heard them. He gives Hank’s hand one more pat before pulling away entirely. From the corner of his eye Hank notices that Niles has turned to look at them once more, but before Hank can say or do anything about it he turns back to the window just as quickly, apparently set on pretending that he had not just been creeping on them. 

Well, two can play at that game—and it's not like Hank wants to pick a fight with Niles. He’s more than happy to keep up the silence for the rest of the ride, staring out at the window again as his mind whirls with a million thoughts. He doesn’t really know what to expect from this meeting, or what even said meeting is _for_ but just the thought of having to face a whole room of those monsters is enough of a concern. And of course there’s also the fact that he has to play along with whatever crap that might be thrown his way. He hates it, but at the same time going along with it is still vastly preferable to dying. 

Everything about this whole… thing is unsettling, but for better or for worse Connor is here with him. He still definitely loathes the asshole for bringing him into this mess but at least he’s taking responsibility for it. That, too, is something he can appreciate. 

With so many thoughts running in his head it feels almost all too soon for them to arrive at their destination. Hank startles out from his thoughts when he feels the limousine come to a stop, blinking in rapid succession as he turns away from the window, just in time to see Niles phasing through the side instead of opening the door like any other normal person. 

Yeah, that’s never not going to be freaky. Hank mutters a few choice words under his breath once Niles is completely gone, then blinks again when the door on Niles' side actually does open up. Connor makes a move to get out of the car first while Hank takes a moment to process his surprise. He quickly catches up once he’s had his moment, following Connor out of the car. 

Hank hears the door behind him close once he’s out, and he turns to the valet, intending to thank them since it's only polite to do so. “Uh, thanks for the lift, um…” he trails off as his gaze properly focuses on the human, and it only takes a second for him to spot the blank look and the empty stare in their eyes. Experience is enough to tell him what he’s seeing here—a human, currently in the throes of an enthrallment. 

It’s a jarring reminder of what he’s dealing with here. Vampires—monsters, with little to no regard for humans. If they weren’t food then they were just puppets and toys for these monsters to play with. No matter how _nice_ Connor has been to him thus far it doesn’t change the reality of what they are. Of what he has become.

Hank clenches his jaw and turns back around to stare up at the fancy office building that he’s been brought to. He remembers Connor having mentioned that the vampires had ties to the people running this city but all of this really drives it home for him. What use was all the fighting against these monsters if things like these happened anyway? Being a hunter wasn’t exactly a glamorous job; almost all of the shit he had to do skirted on the edges of what was legal, so there was no way he could have kept being a cop when he intended to continue that line of work. All those years of fighting, taking down monsters and hunting them before they could hurt people… and look where it got him. Where can he go from here, now that he’s dead and made into a vampire’s personal plaything?

He supposes there’s no point dwelling on it right now. Hell, who knows—maybe the damned meeting might give him some ideas as well. Hank takes in a slow breath and steels himself, climbing to the top of the stairs where Connor is standing, apparently having waited for him.

Connor tilts his head once Hank is close enough, staring with those big, brown eyes of his. “It’s alright if you are nervous,” he says after a moment’s pause. “But you do not have to worry. I am here for you.”

Just like in the limousine Connor reaches over to take his hand, except now Connor’s hands are covered in black leather. But even then Hank can feel a warmth settling in him just from that simple touch, and it's good enough to ease up the tension building in his stomach. It lets up even more when Connor rubs a gloved thumb into his wrist again, and Hank can’t help but let loose a sigh. He really should be worried or mad at how a mere touch from Connor is enough to disarm him like this, but right now it’d be a lie to say he doesn’t appreciate it.

Hank gives himself another second before he steels himself and nods. Connor smiles in return and pulls away to start walking to the entrance of the building. Hank follows behind, and together they cross the threshold to the inside, where Niles is standing there and waiting for them. Unlike Connor, Niles is a lot less patient, and Hank can all but sense his irritation radiating from every inch of his cold skin.

Once they’re both close enough Niles casts a glance between the two of them, then settles his gaze onto Hank with a scowl. “Keep in mind what your sire has told you. _Do not_ squander away his goodwill.”

Hank rolls his eyes at those words in one last show of defiance. “Sorry, I’m not supposed to talk to anybody but _Connor_ now, pal.”

The response brings out a twitch at the jaw from Niles, though before he can say anything else another human—female, and also enthralled—approaches them from the now opened employee entrance.

“Welcome, sires,” she says, and Hank can’t quite suppress a shudder at how flat her voice sounds despite the smile that’s clearly visible on her face. “The Council awaits your arrival at the boardroom. If you would follow me, I’ll escort you all to the elevators.”

She takes a moment to gesture with one hand towards the employee entrance before she turns and begins to lead the way. Niles follows after her first, with Connor trailing behind and Hank after him. Considering how Hank can easily see the elevators just a couple of steps away through the gates, he can’t help but wonder if the escorting was really necessary. Probably some vampire thing, he bets. Ugh. As if he needed more convincing on how much of an asshole any of them are.

They get to one of the open elevators, and the enthralled human gestures for them to enter. Once they do she takes out a keycard from her pocket and taps it at the reader before pressing for the floor that they need to be at.

“We wish you a pleasant evening, sires,” she says once she’s pocketed the keycard, bowing once before proceeding to back herself out of the elevator. The doors slide shut a moment after that, and Hank feels the telltale rumble of the motor as the elevator begins it's ascent up to—he glances over to the buttons—the third highest floor of this building.

The ride up is quiet, almost eerily so. Hank can’t help but feel like he’s missing something here before it sinks into him: breathing. He can’t hear anybody breathing. Something he had once taken for granted, now completely gone. Yet another pointed reminder of the life (or rather, unlife) that he has now. God, he hates it.

Luckily it doesn’t take too long for the elevator to reach its destination, so the discomfort that Hank feels doesn’t exactly make it to reach critical levels. Still, he can’t quite stop the relieved sigh that escapes him upon hearing the elevator chime, and Niles sends another sharp look in his direction. Hank simply glares back in return. Since Niles can't bother being courteous to him, Hank isn’t going to spare the effort to give him the same luxury.

Connor, on his own end, simply seems bemused by the silent exchange. He makes a soft, amused sound from the back of his throat and glances between them, though he remains silent. Niles' expression shifts into one of disapproval before he turns his gaze back forward, just in time for the elevator doors to open up. He steps out the moment they’re fully open, with Connor swiftly trailing behind. Hank doesn’t have much of a choice but to follow after, and he walks out of the elevator and into a relatively short hallway. Fancy decor adorns on both of the walls, and despite the muted lighting Hank can still see them as clear as day. Yeah, he still hasn't gotten used to this whole night vision thing.

The three of them approach the end of the hallway, marked by a set of double doors that swing open of their own accord once they approach. Both Niles and Connor step in without missing a beat, leaving Hank to quickly follow behind. The moment he fully enters the room he hears the doors swinging shut by themselves again, and Hank suppresses the shudder that nearly tries to run through him. Regardless of what he feels about all these dramatics and theatrics, it's shit like this that reminds Hank of the world he’s now thrown into—a world that is ruled by monsters.

Hank turns his gaze forward and lets his vision go into full focus at the sight that greets him. The room itself is nothing special—it’s about as standard as a boardroom can get—but it's the occupants that give him pause. 

At the table sit a total of eight other vampires—eight other Midians. All of them are different, of course, but some of them more than others. Only about a half of them seem to have actually made an effort to dress in something more modern; the rest of them look like they had never left the nineteenth century—or possibly even earlier than that, judging by the incredibly gaudy ensemble that they have on. Regardless of their choice of attire, the one thing that they all have in common is the sight of another vampire standing behind where they sit.

To anybody else they could have passed for a parade of personal bodyguards, what with how they stand, but Hank knows better than to think that. Each of those vampires must be the Firsts of the respective Midians they are standing behind. If anything, the similar attires between sire and fledging shows it pretty fucking well. Of course, it's also more than that; even from where he stands now he can see the way the other Firsts just stare straight ahead, gazes lost and empty and their expressions blank. And they’re all so… well, so fucking _pretty_. Pretty and fragile, like a collection of dressed-up dolls that have been brought out and gathered together.

This whole scene is something right out of the worst vampire stories. Hank suppresses another shudder and struggles to keep his expression neutral. He tries not to dwell on it, but it's hard not to feel like he stands out just a bit too much, what with his heavy clothes and aging skin. Everyone here just looks so fucking _young_ even though Hank is well aware that the reality is very different.

Some of the Council members turn to look at Hank, and the way they stare at him is more than a little unnerving. Like he’s something to pry apart. Hank shifts himself to stay close to Connor; he may not like Connor, but at least he _knows_ him, to a degree. That little bit of familiarity is all that he has right now. If he were by himself, Hank knows that any one of these monsters would be enough to tear him to pieces. He can see why now Connor kept insisting that he’d keep him safe. It’s hard to not appreciate that sentiment in this moment.

Hank makes sure to keep close to Connor as the other vampires move towards the table. There are only two empty seats left, and it's not hard to guess who they have been reserved for. Niles settles down promptly in one of them and Connor does the same at the remaining seat.

Well, ‘settling down properly’ would be a polite way to describe what Connor does. He slouches on his chair and props up his feet onto the desk, acting like the world’s oldest teenager currently stuck in his rebellious phase. Even from where he stands behind Connor, Hank can easily sense the complete and total disinterest that Connor harbors towards this entire thing. It’s, well. It’s a little surprising, honestly. Somehow Hank had imagined Connor to be one to at least take something like this seriously, but now that he thinks about it, maybe he should have seen this coming. It'd explain Niles’ pissy fucking mood, anyway. 

A brief silence hangs in the room once both Connor and Niles have settled down at their respective seats. Hank recalls Connor’s words back in the limousine and directs his gaze forward, doing his best to keep up the facade even as a part of him recoils at having to do this. He hates this, but it's this or something far worse and Hank would rather stay alive if he can manage it.

“Connor.” From the corner of his vision Hank sees that it's one of the older looking vampires—possibly even the eldest looking one of all—that is speaking up. “Even for you, this is exceptionally tardy.”

To Hank’s surprise, it is Niles who ends up responding. “Apologies, Lord McCullen,” he starts, and Hank does his best to put that name to the relevant face. McCullen. From the way Niles is addressing him right off the bat Hank has no doubt that this person must be somebody of importance. He can’t see any other reason why Niles would have made the effort to be so polite otherwise. “As I have informed you and the rest of the Council, Connor has been occupied with—”

“I sired my _First_ ,” Connor cuts in with a drawl. “As you can already see for yourselves, dearest Council members.”

He gestures behind him at those words, right towards where Hank is standing. Even while having to keep his gaze forward, Hank can see some of the Council members turning to set their gaze upon him and the weight of it is enough to make Hank want to squirm in discomfort. It’s certainly a struggle to keep himself still at this point, as unnerved as he feels, but somehow he manages. Maybe it's because not _all_ of them are looking at him, or maybe it's because he doesn’t really want to know what happens if they know he’s not mindless like the other fledglings in the room. Either way, he has no desire to find out.

One thing that all the members have in common, however, regardless if they looked at him or not, is the distinct expression of displeasure that they all have on their faces. Niles, in particular, is halfway to glaring daggers at his brother.

Another Council member speaks up then—a woman, this time, seated just a bit to the side of where Hank’s gaze is stuck at, dressed in something more befitting of the present day. “Understand that we were merely concerned when you did not report back as usual,” she says, and although her words seem neutral, there’s something in her tone that rubs Hank the wrong way. He can’t quite place a finger on why, though. “The mission should have been child’s play for you. When you did not report your success and return, we could not help but fear for the worst.”

Yeah, right. She doesn't sound concerned at all. 

The chair that Connor is sitting on has a high back, but Hank at his full height is taller so he is able to see Connor turning his head over in the direction of that particular Council member. “I appreciate your concern,” he says, and it doesn’t escape Hank’s notice at how that Council member shirks back ever so slightly. “But rest assured that I am fine and in one piece.”

It’s easy enough to start seeing the power dynamics between all these vampires, even though this meeting has only just begun. Hank can’t be too certain yet, of course, since this has just started, but it's easy enough to begin picking out the ones with the bigger egos. He knows it’s going to take more than one meeting to fully ascertain the full picture, but the sooner he can understand it all, the better. It may be creepy and cold but he’d fought vampires long before he got turned into one. As long as they keep sniping at each other like this, he’s certain he can pick up a thing or two about each of them at the very least.

...but even with all of that, Hank definitely has to fight to keep himself from rolling his eyes every now and then. He doesn’t quite manage to stop himself entirely, but at least manages to not scoff at this whole thing. It all reeks of pure bullshit.

“And so you have returned.” Hank is drawn out from his thoughts at the voice of McCullen, who is looking at Hank once more. His eyes are inhumanly gold, and his gaze almost feels like it could pierce through anything that Hank might have put up in his mind. “With your First, no less. Who also happens to be the very target we tasked you to eliminate.”

Hank just barely manages not to jerk in surprise. Connor… was actually sent to kill him? What? He wants to look down at Connor and demand some answers, but he can feel even more sets of eyes on him now. He holds still. He can hear all the members murmuring between themselves, and he doesn’t need super-hearing or any fancy powers to sense the rising disapproval from all of them. Yeah, nothing about this is boding well for him.

Connor was supposed to kill him. That fact runs through Hank’s mind over and over again. He can’t imagine having done anything to warrant the attention of a whole room of Midians, much less something bad enough that they'd want to sic their own vampire hitman on him. His mind whirls as he attempts to puzzle out any kind of reason, and he’s distracted enough that he almost misses the next Council member who speaks. “You were supposed to eliminate the target, Connor. Not turn him into one of us.”

Regardless of what he feels about this revelation, Hank knows he'll have time to dwell on it in more detail later. He focuses back to the present and takes a quick moment to see who it is who has spoken; a woman, again, dark-skinned and with her hair done up in a way he can almost describe as _geometric_. Her attire is also more modern than ancient, though she has a lot more shades of white on her clothing compared to anybody else in this room. 

He hears Connor make a non-committal sound, and he waves off the words almost carelessly with a gloved hand. “Does it matter?” he returns, and even from his voice Connor sounds like he could care less about the technicalities. “Either way, he’s dead. I fulfilled my objective all the same.”

Well, Connor might not care, but _Hank_ certainly does. Knowing that Connor had been sent to kill him, combined with the awareness of how strong he is… Hank can’t see any scenario where he would have been able to walk out of that alive. If anything, it feels like becoming a vampire would have been the only way for Hank to get out of it without being dead—well, not that he already isn’t, but. He’s also still here.

What did all of this mean? Once more Hank feels the urge to look over to Connor and demand an answer, but there’s no way he can do that now without attracting attention. All he can do is to stifle around in his own questions and rising confusion. Gee, being some asshole's fledgling sure fucking sucks. 

With how deep into his own head that Hank finds himself, he stops paying attention to keeping his face neutral and emotionless. Or at least, that’s what Hank assumes has happened because McCullen’s gaze towards him sharpens exponentially, the glare snapping Hank back to reality. 

Hank quickly attempts to school his expression back into one of neutrality, but he can’t help but feel that he’s a little too late. McCullen looks at him with an increased degree of interest as he questions Connor, “Is he trained?”

Is he… what? Hank has to force himself to stay unresponsive to that question, though the confusion that he feels inside certainly rises by a fair bit. He has a feeling he’s heard that term before, but he can’t quite recall the where and when. 

As much as he wants to, this isn’t exactly the best time or place to figure that out. Hank can still see McCullen’s gaze still fixated upon him, and the intensity of it is… unnerving. He shifts his eyes down to Connor, who has turned to look at McCullen himself and answers. “I wouldn’t have brought him here if he wasn’t.” Brief pause. “Though you do have to realize I barely even had two nights. Isn’t the usual supposed to be about a month long?”

Next to Connor, Hank can see Niles doing his best to not make a face. He's surprised Niles is managing to keep his mouth shut, considering his track record this far. Maybe Niles isn’t as much of a jerk as Hank had thought he would be.

“The Initiation rite hasn’t been necessary in centuries, Connor,” the dark-skinned woman speaks again. “You know this.”

“Especially when you’re the last one we took in!” Another new voice—this one from a Council member who sits too far to the side to be in Hank’s field of vision. His voice, high pitched and almost screechy, gives Hank the impression of somebody squirrely and possibly incredibly dodgy. “You’re not even of age yet to sire anybody, RK800!”

Well, he _also_ sounds like an asshole, from the sounds of it. Great. The age thing is certainly something to keep in mind, but it's the last part has more of his attention. RK800? It’s not hard to make the connection that he is referring to Connor, but where did that particular designation come from?

He feels… something, from Connor, at this point. It feels like irritation, or annoyance—perhaps even frustration. There’s no time for Hank to parse those emotions, however, as Niles goes to speak up before the silence stretches on for too long. “Lord Quirrell, if Connor had not been of age, then his First would not have managed to survive the transformation. The fact that he stands here now with his sire is enough reason for us to believe that he is.”

Since this Quirrell loser is too far to the side for Hank to catch him, Hank can’t see his face or his expression, but Hank thinks it must be pretty great judging by the sneer Niles sends his way. Imagining that is only a slight balm to the headache Hank’s slowly getting as he tries to make sense everything they’re saying. Some parts he can get, but as for others… a lot of shit is going over his head, that much he's certain of.

“Why bring him here now, then?” The first woman who had addressed Connor pipes in. “Two nights is not enough for a Presentation.” Even through just her speech Hank can all but hear that capital P. It certainly sounds like something important, at the very least. He'll have to ask Connor about it after all this.

Hank can all too easily feel Connor’s eyeroll as he readies his response. “What do you want me to do, leave him rotting in a room?” Comes the retort. “Isn’t the First supposed to be with their sire at all times?”

Silence falls across the room once again. Hank continues to struggle to keep his expression neutral even as the continued quiet begins to gnaw at his nerves. He’s never been great with quiet ever since getting into the business. When you spend half your life hunting things that go bump in the night it's impossible to relax. Once you become well aware of exactly _what_ kinds of things are out there, silence just means something is coming. Of course, it doesn’t escape him that now he’s become one of those very things, and the irony is almost palpable. 

It's McCullen who breaks the silence. “What do you plan to do with him?” He asks, gaze still solely focused onto Hank. It’s starting to get mighty unnerving, actually. 

“He’ll be my assistant in missions,” Connor returns, as easy as you please. “In time, maybe he can even take on some of his own. It’ll certainly be nice to not have to do everything by myself.”

Definitely not the answer that the Council wants, judging by the fresh wave of muttering and the clear expression of discomfort on some of the Council members’ faces. Niles somehow manages to look stonier than ever, and he hears Quirrell letting out some sort of choked, agitated sound.

“Ridiculous,” he snaps, temper already flaring. He certainly seems to be the type to get offended easily, Hank notes. “Absolutely ridiculous. We’ve given you a lot of leeway, RK800, but even this is beyond the pale for you.”

Alright, there’s no way he can stop himself from asking the questions that are brewing in his head at this point. As much as his respect for Niles is slowly going up again, he doubts that the other vampire is going to answer anything he might ask. Connor, at the very least, has proven himself willing to give Hank a response up until now. 

Though Hank came into this knowing that he would be watched, the way McCullen is still staring at him unnerves him a lot more than Hank is willing to admit. He brings his gaze down onto Connor so as to finally get some peace away from having to notice that stare, and focuses his thoughts at his direction. _What’s the deal? You’d think you told them I was here to kill ‘em all._ Not that the thought hadn’t occurred to him, but Hank isn’t the same hotheaded individual he had been in his younger days; he knows better than to foolishly go up against a whole room of Midians when he doesn’t even have a full grasp of the situation at hand. It’d be stupid to just… throw his life away like that.

It takes a moment before Connor replies. _Tradition,_ he begins, and Hank instantly gets a sensation of _comfort_ sweeping through him when he hears Connor’s voice in his mind and that is, well. Not exactly something he wants to dwell on right now. He shoves those feelings aside and simply makes himself focus of what Connor is saying. _It’s been a while since anybody has actually sired somebody, so I would say that they’re a little out of touch—_

“Are you communicating with him?”

McCullen’s voice hits Hank like a bucket of ice water, and the coldness of it settles in the pit of his stomach like something akin to fear. He darts his gaze back up to see McCullen’s gaze on him still, and if anything the intensity in which the vampire is looking at him now has moved from annoyingly oppressive to incredibly unsettling. 

In front of him Hank sees Connor shifting around in his chair, then turning his head to face McCullen once more. “I fail to see how this concerns you.” His tone is cool, but still holds a hint of challenge. Hank… would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little bit assured to notice that. 

He doesn’t have a lot of time to dwell on that, though. “Of course this concerns us, RK800!” Comes the screechy indignation from Quirrell. “If you can’t even control your First properly, then how can you fare as a sire?”

Niles quickly sweeps in to speak here—probably so that Connor doesn’t get a chance to say something and make this even worse. “Connor only has had a night so far, my Lord,” he begins, “With enough time—”

“Given RK800’s strength, I am sure a night would have been more than sufficient.” It’s the other modernly-dressed woman who speaks this time—the one who isn’t dark skinned. Her green eyes narrow as she glances between Hank and Connor, and Hank feels his apprehension slowly rising. “Unless, of course, his age decides to be a factor after all.”

That’s not the first time the issue of Connor’s age has been raised, Hank notes. Just how old is Connor? While Hank has no doubt that Connor _is_ older than him, it seems like that isn’t the case to everyone else. Still, it doesn’t given them a reason to treat Connor like a child, even if he does act like one. 

By now it's a hell of a challenge to keep his face blank, and it gets even moreso when McCullen speaks again. “Even three centuries is being generous, Connor—you must know that. You haven’t even arrived at two.”

Well, that answers that question, giving Hank some room to speculate on Connor’s age. If he were to take those words literally, then Connor has to be at least over _one_ century old. Maybe not old for a vampire, but that’s more than enough time to be regarded as a bit more than a _kid_ , in his opinion. The way they’re clearly patronizing Connor is starting to get more than a little bit annoying. 

_Fuck these guys,_ he can’t help but think towards Connor, eyes glaring at all the other Midian in his sights. _Are they seriously pissed at you for_ not _brainwashing me? That’s fucked._ That’s _incredibly_ fucked, even. Jesus Christ, all of them are such fucking assholes. It’s hard to deny the loyalty that Hank feels that he owes Connor now, even though he’s also aware that it stems from the connection they have through their blood. But he’d rather have Connor over any of these fuckers any day. At least Connor's just weird and not some brainwashing asshole.

Connor doesn’t respond to his words, and Hank worries for a moment that Connor hasn’t heard him, but then Connor is shifting in his seat once more. He puts down his feet from the desk so that he can lean forward in his chair, head slowly turning to regard everyone in the Council. “If I want my First to assist me, I very well can’t have him not be able to think for himself,” he says, each word carefully pronounced. “That would defeat the whole purpose.”

Another woman speaks up, and just like with Quirrell her seating is out of Hank's field of vision. “You do realize what you are proposing, Connor,” she says, her voice clipped and precise, and her accent is more English than American. “You have taken in a hunter, already versed in the art of killing, and given him the tools to kill us all.”

Connor turns his gaze around to face her, and when he speaks this time there is something of an icy chill to it. “Only because my missions tend to involve our own kind, Lady Ashbury. I do have to prepare him for every possibility.”

That, Hank definitely needs to blink several times in order to digest that completely unexpected answer. Connor… hunts other vampires? Connor is a vampire hitman sent to kill _other vampires_? Fucking seriously? His head whirls at this revelation as Hank tries to make sense of this fact. Considering how all these vampires are sniping around thus far he’s not _too_ surprised that espionage and backstabbing would be a thing between them, but somehow it just hadn’t occurred to him that they’d actually have somebody who would be going around to actively _kill_ their own kind. Or well, it sure doesn't sound like the kind of job where you'd want to share the dinner table with that guy. What’s even more surprising is the fact that it's Connor who’s doing this. If he’s really as young as the Council seems to be regarding him, then they’re taking a pretty big risk, giving Connor these jobs. It's sure as fuck something to think about.

The memory of Connor’s amusement flashes back in his mind, the one that Connor flashed when he told Hank about his job, and when he talked about other Midians. _They are the most ancient and noble of vampires, their strength unparalleled by none._ Apparently, Connor didn’t include himself in that comparison. Which meant… what? Was Connor different from them, then? If that is the case, then what is he? And what does that mean for Hank?

It feels like the longer this meeting drags on, the more questions it brings for Hank. By now it feels like he has a million and one questions to ask Connor after all of this is over. Which Hank hopes will be soon, because he doesn’t know how much longer he can take everything that’s happening here or how long he can keep his mouth shut.

“What opportunities would that be, RK800?” Hank tunes back to Quirrell's continued screeching. “The opportunity to kill us all?”

Niles interjects once more. “Connor has no such ideas, I assure you.” There has to be some history here, Hank thinks, given the fact that Niles seems to be interjecting at any chance Connor might have to answer Quirrell. Not that Hank is in anyway surprised by that because, Jesus Christ, who even let somebody like him here in the first place? One would think that somebody this annoying would’ve gotten himself killed by now, but Hank supposes he has no idea on how the exact hierarchy works between the Council members. He has a few guesses, but they’re far from anything concrete. 

Yet more things to dwell upon on later. Hank pushes that to the list of things to run through his head later as the non dark-skinned, modernly-dressed female council member speaks once more. “He may not, but given the autonomy he’s clearly granting to his First, we need assurance that he does have his own fledgling under control.”

This time Hank can all too easily feel the irritation rising from Connor, and it snaps as Connor lets out an explosive sigh. “He’s a hunter and right now he’s standing in the same room as what could be his greatest targets of all time. _You_ don’t see him drawing out a gun now, do you?”

It’s clear enough from the tone of Connor’s voice that he’s done, to put it mildly. Hank can certainly share that same sentiment, which is something that he didn’t think he would ever have with Connor, much less have it happen this soon. But he very much agrees.

“Connor’s right,” he begins, and instantly the gazes of all the Council members snap onto him—including Niles, who sends a deathly glare in his direction. Hank would be apologetic about it, but if everyone’s going to keep talking about him like this, then hell if he isn’t gonna speak for himself. He may be Connor’s… whatever but he’s still his own person. He isn’t going to let a bunch of asshole vampires decide his fate for him. 

Since there’s no more point in keeping up the act, Hank sweeps his gaze across the room, looking at each of the Council members in the eye and speaks up again. “Connor’s right,” he repeats himself, just so to make that point perfectly clear before he continues on. “But even if he wasn’t, I’m not fucking _stupid_. A room full of you assholes could floor me before I can even reach for my gun.” Not that he has any of his weapons now—he used all of them up when battling Connor, and he highly doubts that Connor made any effort to retrieve them given their function—but his point still stands. “I might be dead like you guys, but that doesn’t mean I have a fucking death wish.”

The silence that comes after Hank’s words is all to tangible, and the tension is so thick that a knife could slice through it. Hank would be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous as hell, but he continues to stand his ground. Connor doesn’t move from his seat, but Hank feels something like… approval coming from his end, which he can certainly appreciate in the current situation.

“I was wrong,” comes the voice of Quirrell—and now that Hank can turn to look at him, he does indeed look as squirrelly and dodgy as Hank has pictured him to be. He’s also shaking in indignant rage. “This— _this_ is beyond the pale,” he hisses, pale face now flushed in an angry red. “An insult to centuries of tradition!”

McCullen slides his gaze back down to Connor as he leans forward in his own seat, gnarled fingers linked together as he sets his hands upon the table. “We are aware of your more… eclectic choices, Connor,” he says as he regards Connor with a cool, tempered gaze. “But you do realize that the traditions are there for a reason. Fledglings are meant to _serve_. It is in their very nature.”

Hank almost growls at that response. Like hell he’s here to serve anybody, including Connor. He is his own person, not somebody’s fucking _slave_. Even if Connor is the one who turned him, that doesn’t—it doesn’t mean anything. It will never mean anything.

Now that Hank doesn’t have to keep still he can look down properly at Connor, which means he can see the slow tilt of Connor’s head as he regards McCullen back in turn. “Doesn’t doing my job for me pretty much do that?” he returns, the faintest hint of displeasure evident in his voice. “At the very least, what he does will be far more productive compared to your precious, prized dolls. All they do is stand around and look pretty during all those little tête-à-tête sessions that we so commonly have around here.”

The words undeniably hit their mark; the corners of McCullen’s lips curl in displeasure, and through their link Hank can sense Connor’s momentary crow of triumph. Though the way Connor is acting pretty much reminds Hank of a kid winning a pissing contest, Hank is annoyed enough that he can let himself partake in Connor’s victory. Seriously, fuck them and all of their goddamn ‘traditions’. If this is how he would have been treated if he were turned by anybody else, then he’d rather be stuck with Connor.

“You all understand what our particular services require of us,” Niles interjects, already sounding strained. This time Hank does feel a little sorry over the fact that Niles has to deal with the constant problems that Connor is giving to him, but at the same time he’s glad for it. Glad that Connor doesn’t give a fuck to these traditions, because otherwise Hank wouldn’t be here right now. It’s hard to not feel appreciative of that fact. “Connor simply believes that an extra set of hands will benefit us in the long run. Given our work, it would only make sense that any fledging we sire should be able to act for themselves instead of waiting for constant instructions.” 

“I do not doubt his intentions,” the female vampire with from earlier responds. “But giving his fledgling this amount of autonomy means that they must be aware of where their boundaries lie. If they act out of turn, then it is the sire’s duty to impart upon them the importance of those boundaries." Green eyes flicker between Connor and Hank as she says that. Connor doesn’t answer immediately, though he has turned to face her. The tension from before comes back in full swing, along with the apprehension. In the back of his mind he recalls something about punishments and wonders for a moment if Connor is going to do that. Fuck, he really hopes that isn’t the case. He doesn’t exactly have any right to deny it either, which only makes this worse.

“He is still under Initiation,” Connor eventually says, words coming out tight. “As long as that is in effect, the rules do not apply.”

This time, it is the dark-skinned woman who speaks. “Then, does this mean we can take it as your intention to formally present him at the end of Initiation?”

“I have to either way now, don’t I?” Connor looks over to her, a snap in his voice this time while he replies. “Might as well follow the _tradition_ you all are so worried about.”

It’s all too easy to hear the sarcasm dripping off Connor’s voice at _tradition_ , but honestly Hank could care less. He can now see why Connor thought all of this is utter nonsense, because it certainly fucking is. Hank hardly had the best impression of them for the start, but he sure as fuck likes them even less than before. They’re a new level of assholes.

But at least Hank knows that he can stand his ground fully now without having to really fear anything—not as long as Connor is here supporting him. It’s surprisingly nice, even as unexpected as it is. He wouldn’t have thought that he’d have anybody in his corner, much less that person being the very guy who killed him. But he isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. If the Council of Assholes are just going to pretend that he isn’t here at all and want to try anything with him, then they can bring it. 

_Don’t listen to these assholes,_ he tells Connor, _They’re fucking idiots._

He gets the smallest hint of bemusement from Connor in return. _I know they are,_ he hears the words in his head, and the relief from before washes over him again. This time Hank lets it happen. It helps with his nerves, for one, and… well, he knows he can trust Connor, at least in this. Which is, again, nice.

There’s only one more moment of silence before Connor breaks it himself. “I’m invoking the Initiation rights.”

The Council members instantly start to murmur among themselves again upon those words. The dark-skinned woman turns to Connor and levels him with a look of her own. “And you will present him at the end of it.” Those words were not phrased as a question, that much Hank can tell. 

Connor stares back, his gaze equally unflinching. “I already said I would, did I not?”

The woman only continues to stare at him. Connor returns the stare with his own, and Hank doesn’t need telepathic powers to see the silent clash of wills that’s going on between them. 

Surprisingly, it is the woman who backs away after a while. She breaks eye contact from Connor and turns to Niles, addressing him. “Will you be alright taking over any possible missions that Connor might have during that time, Niles?”

A nod from Niles. “Yes, Lady Stern.”

“I see no reason to deny this, then.” The woman—Stern—flicks her gaze up to Hank for a brief moment, black eyes studying him for a quick second before she glances back down to Connor. “Very well. You have your month, Connor. I suggest you use it wisely.”

“Glad we have that covered.” The sarcasm all too audible from Connor at this point. Hank backs away as Connor makes a show of standing up from his seat, the sound of his chair echoing aloud as it's legs drag across the floor. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he says, pulling both his coat and his scarf closer around him, “I have a fledgling to attend to.”

With those parting words Connor makes a dramatic sweep out of the room, and Hank is more than happy to follow behind in this instance, storming off with just as much disdain that Connor has.

“You fuckers oughta count yourselves lucky,” he mutters under his breath as he makes his exit, not caring if they can pick up on his voice. Part of him _wants_ them to know. “Connor deserves better than you fuckers.”

Hank takes his leave after those words. Fuck these guys and their shit. They couldn’t just treat Connor like this. Not to mention that getting ignored by all of them like that was also pretty fucking annoying. Pissed would be an understatement to describe how he feels right now.

He catches up to Connor at the elevator once he’s out of there, coming to a stop next to him. _Christ, I can see why you kept these assholes waiting._ That entire meeting was nothing but utter bullshit, in his opinion. The entire thing felt like nothing more than one giant pissing contest between all of the vampires in there.

 _They are rather set in their ways._ Connor turns to face the elevator doors after those words, having been looking at Hank’s direction earlier. There’s something on Connor’s expression that currently eludes Hank’s understanding, but right now he’ll give Connor his space and not try to prod him on it. He’s taken enough heat from all those assholes inside.

Hank lets out a small grunt as he turns to look at the elevator too. _Their ways suck._ They sucked _a lot_. Bunch of assholes, all of them. Hank’s certainly glad that he isn’t stuck with any of them. 

Connor simply hums in response, and the two of them continue to wait in silence. Eventually the elevator dings to announce it's arrival, and Connor steps in as soon as the doors slide open wide enough for him to enter. _Niles will be staying in the meeting,_ he informs Hank, _We’ll return to the estate first._

That makes sense. Hank nods once to show that he’s heard Connor and quietly follows after him into the elevator. The doors slide shut as soon as he enters, and the motor rumbles as the elevator begins its descent back to the ground floor.

Hank looks at Connor again as they head down, considering the words that had been spoken earlier. From what he can tell, they seem to be in something of a precarious position. He would feel sorry about it, but it had been Connor’s own choice to turn him in the first place, so it’s hardly his responsibility to apologize for their being stuck in it now. He had never wanted this in the first place.

He never wanted this, but since he’s already in it… _What’s this Initiation thing about? They talked about you… ‘presenting’ me?_ Considering how this involves him, Hank thinks that he at least has a right to know just what exactly he’s getting into—and what he needs to possibly mentally prepare himself for. Maybe he’s being cynical here, but from his own experiences back when hunting them, anything that involves vampires never really turns out to be anything good.

Connor lets out a slow breath at the question, acting as if he’s somehow _stressed_. Which, well… is probably not a good thing. Something in Hank shirks back a little, unwilling to aggravate Connor further, but Hank forces those feelings to the wayside. He was not going to be controlled by some… feelings that aren’t even truly his. 

So Hank waits, and eventually, Connor begins to speak. _Initiation is the period of time where the sire spends with their First to train them in the ways of our kind._ He explains. _At the very end is Presentation—where the First is presented to the Council and tested in a series of trials to prove their worth to the community they will serve in under their sire._

Huh. That… wasn’t as bad as what Hank had been expecting. _That all?_ he asks, shoulders shrugging, then makes a sound upon seeing Connor’s responding nod. Considering how he had been expecting something along the lines of blood sacrifices, this is hardly even a concern. 

He leans over and pats Connor’s shoulder. Sure, he never asked for this, but after that meeting? Connor’s looking better and better compared to those assholes. At least Connor is willing to take the heat for what he did, which is more than what he can say for a lot of other people. “If it’s just that, then it’ll be no problem. We’ll show those assholes, alright?”

Connor glances over to him, blinking once before responding. “Of course.”

Right. Yeah. That’s… that’s good. Hank blinks as well, giving Connor’s shoulder another pat before he pulls his hand away. At least he’s saved from more awkward silence by ding of the elevator once again to announce their arrival on the ground floor. Just like earlier Connor steps out the moment the doors open wide enough for him, and Hank follows behind after a second’s pause. The enthralled staff is still there, though she doesn’t so much as spare them a glance as they pass through the employee gates and out of the front doors of the building.

The night sky greets them the moment they’re out, with nothing but the light of the crescent moon to show the way. Not that Hank really needs any kind light to see in the dark, but it helps. As they head down the stairs leading to the main road Hank quickly notices that there isn’t a car waiting for them this time. He’s partially surprised, but it makes sense after a bit of thinking; they had left the meeting early, after all, so of course there isn’t a vehicle to send them back the way they came.

He glances around their surroundings, feeling the hesitation starting to seep into him now that the immediate dangers have passed. All of this—it's very real and it’s happening. As unexpected as it is, this is also his first night out on his own since dying, in a way. While Hank knows he could take this chance to run… he doesn’t. He won’t, at least not for now. He owes that much to Connor after everything that transpired up there in the meeting.

“So, uh…” he glances back to Connor with a questioning look, “How’re we getting back? I mean, I’m assuming once the sun comes up I’ll turn into a pile of ash so I hope this is lesson one on running really fast without getting tired.” Or at least something along those lines. Whatever that can get them back to the estate before the sun rises.

Connor doesn’t respond to the question, apparently more concerned with looking at their surroundings as well. There’s a look on his face that seems to suggest that he’s in the middle of debating on something, though Hank can’t even begin to guess what it might be. Still, he can at least give Connor a little bit to settle on whatever it is that he has in his mind, especially considering earlier.

Hank waits once again, and this time it doesn’t take long at all; Connor seems to come to a decision soon enough. He turns back to walk over to Hank, and when he’s close enough he reaches out to curl a hand around his upper arm.

“Like this,” he says, and in the next moment Hank feels and sees the world distorting around him. A wave of black surrounds them as they’re displaced, distinctly reminding Hank of the shadows that Connor apparently has at his command. Is that how they’re moving, then? It’s… definitely new to him, but it’s not _too_ bad. Hank certainly can’t complain if this’ll get them back faster. 

The whole thing lasts for several seconds, and the next thing Hank knows, he's stumbling upon a familiar floor in an equally familiar room. Hank only has a few moments to realize that they’re back in the room he had woken up in before Connor takes up his attention with a kiss. Hank makes a sound of surprise, though he certainly doesn’t protest; he lets Connor shove him up against the nearest wall, humming against his lips when Connor presses up against him and deepens the kiss with hungry fervor. 

Hank returns the kiss the best he can, though he can't help but smirk against Connor's lips. _You really wanted to do that this whole time, huh?_ Not that he minds. The kiss, the way Connor so eagerly presses their bodies together—it all grounds him to the moment. Nothing else matters except for now. Anything later is for Future Hank to deal with. 

_I’ve already been denied twice,_ comes the impatient bite of Connor’s response. Just like before Hank feels something cool washing over his body, and in the next instance he feels every inch of Connor’s naked body against his own skin. Hank very much likes that—and the same can be said for Connor, too, who’s already rubbing up his rapidly hardening erection against him, moaning into his mouth with every jerk of his hips. _I won’t be denied a third time._

Hank feels his smirk widening at that, rubbing back against Connor now that their pesky clothes are no longer in the way. _Don’t let me stop you,_ he replies, taking every moment he has to relish the way Connor moves against him, already so eager and wanting. It’s good—it’s more than good. The him of a few hours ago probably wouldn’t like this, but after what happened in the meeting? Hank can at least appreciate what he has with Connor now. That, or maybe their bond is getting stronger. Or maybe he can admit to himself that he’s a little pissed that they were interrupted earlier as well. Whatever the reason, Hank’s just happy that he can have Connor to himself right now in this very moment. 

_Yeah,_ he says, letting out a breathy sigh at a particularly good roll of Connor’s hips against him, _just like that._

Emboldened by those words, Connor’s movements get more insistent, and it's pretty clear that he’s working himself towards a singular goal. Hank certainly can’t fault him for knowing what he wants.

When Connor speaks this time, his words come out in a growl that reverberates in his mind. _I want you. I want all of you._ It’s impossible to deny the hunger that Hank can hear in that voice, and it makes his pulse race and his hips cant against his sire. He doesn’t know if that reaction is due to their bond or if it's just because Connor just happens to be really hot, but Hank doesn’t exactly care to know either. All he knows is that it feels good.

He deepens their kiss without a second thought, wrapping his thick arms around Connor to draw in and hold him even closer. _I think I can arrange that._

Connor growls and presses himself flush against Hank once he’s drawn closer, as if trying to use his own body to pin Hank against the wall while still continuing to grind their hips together. Even though Connor is physically smaller than him, Hank has no doubt that his sire _could_ keep him here if he wanted to, and somehow the thought of that sends a frisson of heat through his entire body. It’d be good, some part of his mind points out to him. It would be good to have Connor pin him down. It’d be hot as hell.

Hank is so distracted from his thoughts that he almost misses Connor’s mutter of _Bed_ , and he only has a second to digest that before the world tilts on him once more. In the blink of an eye Hank finds himself now pinned down (with hands that aren't covered by those fucking gloves anymore, thank god) and pressed hard against the bed by his wrists, and god if it doesn’t feel so much better. He ruts up against Connor and moans against his lips as Connor ravages his mouth with his own. Connor lets out another growl into his mouth, and the sound of it burns through his veins like wildfire, making him shiver and gasp.

 _Fuck._ It’s so good, so intense and so hot. Connor is so hot and he wants—he wants more. Connor rocks against him one more time and it’s all the encouragement that Hank needs to spread his legs as he pants into Connor’s mouth, eager for anything more that his sire is willing to give to him.

Connor makes an approving sound, pulling away from the kiss, and the loss of his sire’s lips against his own almost has Hank whining if not for the way he sees Connor looking down at him, the intent and hunger clear in his expression. 

_I want you to moan my name,_ he hears his sire say, voice dark and deep and full of delicious promise. _I want you to scream my name as I claim every inch of you. I want you to think of nothing else but me when you come, because you are mine and no one else’s._

He growls at the end of those words, and Hank can see the glint of his fangs as he watches them extend. Some logical part of his mind tells him that he should be scared, seeing this—all of these are very real threats and Connor is the one who killed him. But that very same voice is drowned out by the fire in Connor’s eyes and the heat he feels from his sire’s growl. Connor looks at him like he’s something to devour but rather than fear all Hank feels is _want_ and he gasps in response to his sire’s hunger, knowing that his eyes now burn with the same shade of red that he can see in Connor's. 

_Only you, Connor,_ he says, not even thinking twice about his response. Everything Connor says, everything he wants to do—Hank has no doubt that it’ll be good. It’ll all be good and just thinking about it makes him want even more. He can feel his cock twitching, already starting to fill just by the promise of his sire’s words.

Connor growls again, his eyes flaring. _**Mine**_ , he hears the word before Connor kisses him again, and Hank trembles and gasps at the hot wave of pleasure that washes through him upon feeling the possessiveness that his sire has for him. After what happened there’s no doubt in his mind now—he wants to belong to Connor. He wants to submit and let Connor have every part of him because his sire already owns him and Hank wouldn’t ever want to be anyone else’s. 

He feels Connor’s hands pull away from his wrists, starting to touch every inch of his body instead, and the drag of his sire’s fingers down his arms and the way he scratches his nails against his chest just has Hank wanting for more. He deepens the kiss as much as he can, pressing his tongue up against Connor’s fangs, practically begging for his sire to bite and mark him. He’s more than happy to wear those marks on him, to be able to feel more of that sweet pain that only Connor can ever give to him. _Yours, Connor. I’m yours._

Connor shivers at the words, and Hank can feel his want sharply rising from the link between them. It’s so good to feel that, to be able to give his sire what he wants and make him feel good, because making Connor feel good is all that matters.

But despite how much he knows Connor wants it, his sire instead pulls away from their kiss. Hank can’t help but whine, disappointed about the loss, but he’s quickly placated when he feels his sire mouthing down to the unmarked side of his neck. He purrs at the way Connor lavishes attention upon him without pause, his tongue tracing patterns on his skin in a promising tease as he works his way down to the juncture between his neck and shoulder. He feels his sire pausing then, fangs pressing ever so gently against his skin, and Hank shivers at the unspoken question. His sire’s mouth and tongue is so warm and perfect there, and the only thing that would make it better is if he bites down and marks him on both sides of his neck.

 _Fuck, yes, bite me._ He’s already begging but he doesn’t care; how can he care when he knows how good it feels? He’s got nothing to lose when he’s with his sire like this, because Connor already has everything of him. There’s nothing about him that he has to hide. _Bite me, please._

He hears Connor purr in response to his words, and in his mind he can feel the syrupy sweetness of his sire’s pleasure rising even more, almost threatening to drown Hank in it. He whines and gasps when he feels Connor pressing down further with his fangs, almost breaking through skin. He wants it to happen so badly, desires the sharp pain/pleasure of his sire’s bite to take him entirely because he knows it’ll be good just like everything else that his sire gives to him. He tries to press his neck up further against Connor’s fangs but Connor has him pinned down with his hands on his chest, and all Hank can do is to beg again. “Connor, please.” 

Hank knows that Connor must have heard him, but instead of giving him what he pleads for, his sire continues to tease. He draws his fangs back and moves to kiss lower down his body instead, and every press of Connor’s lips against his skin sends sparks of pleasure zipping through his nerves like lightning. He can feel the trail of Connor’s mouth on him as his sire kisses down to his chest, and then he gasps when he feels his sire’s tongue swirling around his right nipple. Connor licks at it sweetly, teasing the nub there to hardness with little kitten flicks using what must be the tip of his tongue. 

“Fuck, Connor,” he mumbles, unable to think of anything else to say, eyes fluttering at the returning purr he hears in response. Hank doesn’t ever remembering it being this good when he had been with anybody else. He shudders and gasps with every lick, feeling the pleasure as it courses through him, further amplifying the desire that he already feels through their bond.

He doesn’t know how long Connor spends teasing him like this, but eventually Connor pulls away. Hank almost begins to sigh in relief—only to moan louder than ever when it turns out that Connor has just simply shifted to lavish attention onto the other side of his chest instead. As he does that Hank feels his sire’s hands sliding up and down the sides of his body, fingers digging into his body and pressing in with his nails to leave marks against his skin. It’s all so good and amazing and Hank feels so light headed from all the attention that his sire is giving onto him and his body.

“ _Connor,_ ” he moans out loud, too lost in his pleasure to even be self-conscious of his body at this point. He feels exposed and raw, every part of him flayed open by everything that his sire does to him, and for once he doesn’t care that he’s being loud or needy or embarrassing. That part of him is now dormant and silent, drowned out by all the pleasure that he feels for being _good_. He wants to be good, to be nothing but good like how a good fledgling should be.

He reaches up blindly with one hand, somehow managing to grasp onto and pull at Connor’s hair as he shivers and shakes with each lick he can feel from his sire’s perfect, warm tongue. “Connor, fuck, I… I was—I’m supposed to—” _serve,_ his mind finishes for him. He should be the one doing all of his for his sire, especially after how nice Connor had been to him the night before. His sire has already given him so much and hasn’t even been able to repay him, and Hank wants to correct that. He _should_ correct that, because he is good and wants to be good and he needs Connor to know this.

Hank feels more than hears Connor’s hum, and he whines one more time when his sire pulls away, shifting upwards to kiss the spot over his chest where his now dead, unbeating heart lies. It should be strange, to no longer have a heartbeat or a pulse, but right now Hank feels nothing but alive when his sire is so near him, when he is kissed so perfectly.

He stares up Connor, another shiver running through his body when he sees the intent stare that his sire is giving to him. _You serve by lying here and calling out my name,_ he says, fangs starting to extend again. _Now I want you to scream it._

There’s no time for Hank to digest what Connor means by those words; in the very next moment Connor uses a fang and draws out a gash right over the spot on his chest where he had kissed, and Hank yells out his sire’s name at the sudden, unexpected sensation of _pain_ that jerks through his whole body. “ _Connor…_!”

As soon as he calls out for his sire that very same pain transforms into pleasure, brought about by the warmth of Connor’s tongue pressing up against the freshly made wound. His sire laps up the blood that’s risen up to the surface and the pleasure thickens as Hank gets to feel that deep, connected sensation that always comes with Connor drinking his blood.

From the way Connor laps at his wound Hank knows that the damage is only skin deep, and so it doesn’t take long for his sire to lick it clean. Hank can feel it closing back up as his regeneration kicks in, but before that wound is completely healed Connor has moved on to draw out another wound right below his ribs. Once again Hank lets out a cry at the pain he first feels, only to lose himself to the pleasure when Connor laves his caring attention onto that same wound.

And so it repeats, again and again. Connor goes down his body and uses his fangs to draw out more wounds across his skin. Hank hisses and keens with every cut as Connor draws out blood from him and soothes each mark with his tongue. The pain and pleasure flip around on him each time, both of them equal in their intensity. 

“Connor,” he gasps out when he feels his sire’s fangs pressing against the crease of his inner thigh. Hank is all too aware of how often he’s calling out for his sire but at the same time it's just too good for him to _not_ react to it. “Connor, god, fuck.” He’s never had it quite like this, but he likes it—the balance between pleasure and pain has never felt this good, and his cock is already twitching desperately without Connor even needing to pay attention to it.

Through the haze of his pleasure he sees Connor flickering his gaze up, crimson eyes boring into him and keeping him pinned in place. Hank whines softly from the back of his throat, urging for his sire to continue. He’ll be good. He’ll do anything his sire says, as long as he doesn’t stop.

 _Tell me how you feel,_ he hears his sire say, and he knows instinctively that these words are a command. He tries to focus on what Connor is saying so that he knows what to do, but it's so hard to concentrate when he can feel those fangs gently poking at the sensitive skin there, teasing him with what he can have. _What it's like to have my mouth on you. Let me hear it._

It takes more than a few moments for Hank to gather enough focus in order to speak. _Feels like my skin is on fire,_ he begins, and his body quivers as a new wave of pleasure runs through him—a reward for complying with his sire’s request. _Your tongue is so warm—fuck._ It feels so good to do as what his sire asks for him, something inside of him purring in satisfaction from lying here, completely pliant and moaning his sire’s name.

His chest heaves as Hank takes in an unnecessary breath, his gaze stuck at the sight of Connor’s mouth at his thigh, the feel of his fangs still pressed against his skin. “Connor… when you taste me, I…” God, he wants his fangs so bad. He needs them. _Bite me. Please._

He can feel Connor’s own satisfaction rising between them, and when he responds his voice comes out in a purr. _As you wish._ Despite the words it's clear enough to both of them exactly who holds the reins in this scenario—not that Hank minds one bit. He can barely mind at all, when everything is so good it feels like his brain is going to melt and leak out of his ears. 

Hank watches eagerly as Connor shifts them, hoisting his right leg over his shoulder in order to give his sire the space he needs to lean in properly. Connor doesn’t hesitate to plunge his fangs into the meat of his inner thigh and Hank throws his head back to cry out his sire’s name, quickly lost in the exquisite pleasure of being at the complete mercy of his sire as Connor finally digs in and begins to drink his blood. This overwhelming desire that he feels, the spark and flame that burns within him and only gets stronger with every sting of pain that he feels… it's not logical, but Hank has no use for logic right now. All he knows is that it feels good and makes him shake and gasp and squeeze Connor’s hair tighter. It’s moments like these where he can truly feel the connection between them embedded deep in his soul, that fundamental part of him now a part of Connor as well, the two of them linked by their blood.

He hears his sire letting out a groan of his own as he takes in more of his blood, and Hank feels nothing but gratitude to hear that, so happy and thankful and glad that he can give all of this to his sire. That his sire is so generous to give him his attention. He knows how lucky he is to have this and how much he doesn't want to lose it. He can’t lose it. He will always want and need his sire. 

Hank doesn’t know how long Connor stays there taking his blood, only aware of the passage of time through every drag he feels from his sire’s fangs. It feels so warm and good to have Connor’s fangs in his flesh, biting him and marking him just as how it should be, even if it's not at his neck. Anywhere is just as fine, so long as his sire wishes for it.

Eventually, though, Connor does pull away, and Hank whines at the sense of _emptiness_ he feels when he loses the feel of his sire’s lips and fangs on his skin. Every moment without them feels like torture, and already he aches to have them back on him. 

At least Connor is still touching him. Hank trembles when he feels fingers brush over the wound at his thigh, and then he catches the scent of his own blood as Connor brings those same fingers over to his lips, the tips of them coated with the blood from his wound. His sire presses his fingers down, smearing the blood across his lips, and Hank whines pitifully at the tease.

 _If you want me to touch you,_ his sire begins to say as he lowers his face back onto the wound at Hank’s inner thigh. Hank watches and whimpers when Connor slowly runs his tongue over the healing wound before biting down again, and the brief sting of pain makes him tremble with barely controlled arousal. _You know what to do._

Hank doesn’t need to be told twice. He feels the weight of his sire’s smouldering gaze upon him as he sticks out his tongue and starts to lap at the blood from Connor’s fingers, sucking off anything else that he can get to. While the taste of his own blood is nowhere as good as Connor’s, the mere act of being fed by his sire is enough to make him moan with want. And with the way Connor continues to pay attention to him and his wound, Hank knows that his sire will always take care of him. _Please, Connor. I want you so bad._ He doesn’t even think twice about begging, by this point. There’s nothing shameful about pleading for something that can feel this amazing. 

Connor is silent only for a moment, but then he shifts the angle of his hand, sliding his bloodied fingers into Hank’s willing mouth. _Get my fingers wet for me. Bite them if you wish, but not too hard. I’ll need them whole for when I touch your cock._

There’s no way that Hank can ignore a command like that. He complies eagerly, dragging his tongue in between Connor’s fingers and sucking on them with a desperation that permeates his entire body, especially when he feels his sire’s other hand starting to stroke down his body once more. Knowing that his sire will give him more soon only hightens his arousal, and the incessant gnaw of his own want is what makes Hank slowly and carefully drag his fangs against the pads of Connor’s smooth fingers, shivering at the knowledge that he can bite down and take what he wants if he desires to. But if he does that then Connor isn’t going to touch him, and his want for that trumps over everything else. He wants to feel the touch of his sire and enjoy the sweet release that it brings to him, further heightened by the way he can feel his sire’s influence curling around him, making everything sweeter, making him want even more. _Please. Touch me, for fuck’s sake…_

He feels Connor’s amusement at those words, but he’s too far gone at this point to even feel annoyed at that. This need he feels is much more than lust, more than anything he'd ever be able to have as a human. It's an instinctive and fundamental part of him that he can't deny any longer. He whines, wordlessly voicing out how much he wants to be touched, and Connor eyes light up with something close to fondness. 

_Only because you beg so sweetly,_ he murmurs before pulling his fingers out from his mouth. His other hand shifts to hold up Hank’s leg as Connor pulls his mouth away from his thigh. Connor takes a moment to rearrange them again so that he can bring down his spit-slicked hand onto Hank’s cock, fingers wrapping themselves firmly around him. Hank growls at the sensation, already desperately arching up into his sire’s touch even before he starts to move his hand, and he moans out loud when he feels Connor biting into his thigh one more time. The exquisite burn of pain and repeated pressure on the wound makes everything so much better, even as it reduces him into a mess of need and want.

It only gets better when Connor actually _does_ start to move his hand. The drag of his sire’s hand on his cock is nothing short of perfect, and the way his thumb rubs against the silt makes Hank shudder all over. It’s so good that all Hank can do is to moan and beg and continue to cry out his sire’s name. It should be shameful and humiliating, knowing that he’s been brought down to something like this, but it feels far too good to care. Nothing matters. Nothing except Connor, who is the only thing he knows right now. 

_You call out my name so well,_ his sire remarks, his tone almost too cruel in it's casual innocence. Hank is hardly in any shape to complain, though—by this point he’s desperate and aching, his cock twitching helplessly in Connor’s perfect hand. He’s pretty certain that he’s going to die from the way his sire pauses ever so briefly in his strokes each time to rub his thumb over the head of his cock. Not that he minds; it would be alright, actually. There are far worse things to die than pleasure. 

Connor continues to watch him as he keeps up the movements of his hand, and Hank whines each and every time his sire pauses to tease him, his fingers clawing into the sheets. _Do you want more of me? Do you want my cock inside of you, to split you apart so that I can claim you in both body and mind?_

Is that even a question? Hank shudders at the words, already imagining it in his mind. His sire, strong and powerful, giving somebody like him the full brunt of his attention. Just thinking about it is enough to make him whine.

 _That’s—that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?_ he manages out, trying and absolutely failing to hide how needy he is for it by this point. All of this—he’s doing it for Connor just as much as he’s doing it for himself. _Please, Connor. I want that. Take me and fuck me, I’m begging you._ It’s all that he can think of, all that he wants right now. 

Connor hums, considering, though he is at least merciful enough to keep on stroking Hank with his hand. He’s leaked enough at this point for his sire to coat his hand completely with his precome, making every stroke a smooth glide from base to tip. Even if Connor doesn’t fuck him this is also just as good, as long as his sire doesn’t stop anything that he’s doing right now.

He feels another flash of amusement over the bond. _Needy,_ he hears his sire murmur teasingly, taking one last drag of blood from his thigh before he fully withdraws his mouth from there. Hank whines at the loss once again, only mildly placated when he feels Connor kissing and licking at the wound to close it properly. It isn’t enough. He wants more—he _needs_ more, so much more. Needy doesn’t even begin to cover it. 

He lets out another whine, pleading for his sire’s attention, but Connor remains steadfast and simply keeps up the movement of his hand on his cock, paying no heed to his cries. Hank is nearly about to start begging for more yet again when he feels a lubed finger sliding into the cleft of his ass, rubbing against his hole, urging him to open up.

Even in his current state Hank can easily figure out what’s going on, and instantly his arousal skyrockets. It doesn’t matter that it’s been decades since somebody has taken him that way, doesn’t matter that he’s never been the biggest fan of it in the past. All that matters now is that it feels right and natural for his sire to do this, for him to want it. He spreads his legs further, moaning as he feels the breach of that first finger into him, so easy and good. He stares up at Connor and shivers when he sees hungry gaze in his sire’s eyes, the way he licks his own lips like Hank is something he intends to savor and cherish.

 _More,_ he pleads, all too eager and willing to let Connor do whatever he wants. It’s his right, after all, as his sire. _I need you, Connor._

Connor hums again, sliding that finger in and out of his ass, gaze flicking between that and Hank’s face. _Yes, you do,_ he says as he slides in a second finger without warning, and Hank moans at the added intrusion. He wants more, needs more, will do anything for more. _You need me so much that you can’t come unless I tell you to. **You can only come when I say so.**_

He pushes three fingers into Hank the same time he says those words and Hank all but melts into them, pushing his hips against the touch as he continues to whine for more. He feels the compulsion of his sire’s words sinking into him, to do whatever it is what Connor has just said, knowing that whatever pleases his sire will certainly please him too.

 _Oh, fuck,_ he gasps as he bucks his hips against those perfect, slender fingers, desperate for them to fill up the aching emptiness that he can still feel inside him. _Oh, Connor._ Compulsion or not, it's a fact that he _needs_ him now. He needs this monster and it isn’t near as sickening a thought as last time—it can’t be. It can’t be, because Connor is there for him.

Connor at least obliges him on this, pistoning his fingers in and out of Hank, fucking him open with them while continuing to stroke his cock with his other hand. _You need me. You need my hands, my fangs, my tongue, my cock. You need me because you belong to me. I want you to call my name out. Know who you belong to in body, mind and soul._

“Fuck. Yes, _yes!_ ” The feel of Connor’s hands on him are so good, so perfect and amazing that all Hank can do is to writhe underneath them. He feels his pleasure rising and burning through him as his cock twitches and burns with the strain and friction of his sire’s smooth, perfect hands. Hank isn’t sure at this point if he’s speaking aloud or voicing them through their bond because every word from his sire now melts down into his very being and becomes _truth_. _**Connor!** Fuck! I need… I fucking need you._

He hears Connor’s responding moan to his words and knowing that his sire desires him just as much serves to make Hank want more than ever. He gives out another whine and this time Connor does actually respond to it. He gives a few final thrusts with his fingers before pulling them out, and although Hank knows that more will come soon he still can’t help but whine again at how empty he feels now after being filled with Connor’s fingers for only god knows how long. 

Connor placates him briefly with a quick hand around his cock, and then shifts to settle on his knees near his ass. _I’m going to fuck you until you can only think of me,_ Connor says, words holding promises that Hank can only nod all too eagerly at. _I’ll fuck you so hard that you can’t remember anything else at all._ He presses the head of his cock up again his ass at this point, and Hank swears that he nearly comes on the spot from that sensation alone. 

_Is that what you want?_ he asks, and this time there’s a seductive purr in his voice, one that Hank can’t ignore even if he tried. _For me to do that to you and more?_

Hank doesn’t even bother to second guess his response. _Fuck—yes. **Yes.**_ It’s all that Hank can care about at this point. Connor, his sire, and his desire. _Give it to me, please._

Connor’s smile sharpens at the words, looking very much like the cat who got the cream, and then he’s pressing in without preamble. Hank practically _screams_ the moment he feels Connor entering him, his entire body shuddering when he feels his sire pushing all the way in and bottoming out in one single thrust. This is exactly what he wanted—to be filled up by his sire’s cock and know that he is claimed in all the ways that matter. This is where he should be. This is how it should be.

He feels Connor's hands at his hips, hoisting him up effortlessly to get them to the optimal angle, and then starts to fuck him in earnest. Hank moans when his sire begins thrusting, reaching up to grab onto any part of him, simply wanting to feel his presence in every way as he’s getting fucked. _Oh, fuck, Connor… that’s so fucking good._

Connor growls in response, picking up the intensity of his thrusts, and with every slam of his hips Hank feels something primal and powerful washing over him, quieting any other thoughts in his head. All that he can register is Connor. Nothing else matters except the feel of his sire's cock in his ass, the iron grip of his hands on his hips, the bright gleam of his red eyes that burrow right into the very core of his being. 

_You are **mine**_ , Connor snarls in his head, the words carrying a truth that Hank knows he can never forget. _No matter what anybody says. You will always belong to me._

“ _ **Yes.**_ ” The response comes without any prompting, Hank murmuring it between little breathy whines, and it echoes through their bond as well. Although to be honest, he doesn’t really need to respond, not when he can feel the truth of Connor’s words in his very being. He is Connor’s—of course he is. His body and his soul and every other part of him knows this. He is but an extension of his sire, who treats him so well and cares for him and _owns_ him. He can never ever forget, not when it's written in his blood. _Always._

He feels Connor’s approval flooding his senses, and the sensation of his sire’s pleasure further amplifies Hank’s own. It goes up even higher when Connor suddenly shifts, leaning forward and getting to just the right angle so that every thrust hits his prostate perfectly, making him growl and groan as he grips his sire desperately to pull him closer. _Don’t hold back. Let the world know who you belong to, my blood._

Hank responds without missing a beat, and the words come out from him almost like second nature now. _Yours. I’m **yours** , Connor._ He is his fledgling, his blood, his First. Everything about him now is because of his sire, and so he will be whatever it is that his sire wants him to be.

Connor growls once more, this time in approval, and his sire rewards him by taking his neglected cock and starting to stroke. That touch is everything that he had wanted, and his mind craves for more. His body responds to that want, arching up and trying to reach for that sweet precipice, but for some reason it eludes him.

He hears Connor chuckling darkly above him, as if all too aware of his predicament. _You’re so close._ He purrs the words out as he twists his hand on the head of his cock and squeezes it, causing Hank to shiver and moan as another spark of arousal shoots through him. _But you can’t come. Not yet. Not until I tell you to._

He knows that Connor isn’t lying—he can feel it himself. He can feel the painful spark that is his arousal reach its apex but _still_ he can’t break free, can’t let loose and let release wash over him because _Connor said so_ and his body wants nothing more than to do exactly as Connor says. It’s almost a cruel sort of punishment; his body obeys and he feels the pleasure that rewards him for obeying, but at the same time that very pleasure is what’s making him want to come in the first place. It all builds up so quickly inside of him, a feedback loop of pleasure that compounds together, and it doesn’t take long at all for Hank to really start losing it. He whines and claws at his sire, begging to be freed from this sweet torture. _Please. Please, Connor._

Connor smiles at the plea, but unlike the other times there’s something darker in there this time. _What does my blood beg for so sweetly?_ he asks, never stopping in his unerring thrusts to Hank’s prostate, and also mercilessly stroking him faster, leaving Hank to gasp and claw at Connor even more desperately than before. God, he needs… he needs to—

 _Please!_ Hank doesn’t have to breathe but right now he feels incredibly short of breath. His body is wound up tight as a bow but instead of releasing his arousal just builds up higher, heat running through his entire body with nowhere to go. Connor’s cock is hitting him _perfectly_ , so perfectly that it hurts, and his hand doesn’t make it any better. It’s all too much. _Please… let me come._

Instead of giving him want he wants Connor only shifts even closer, moving in all the way so that he can lean in and drag his fangs across his throat, causing Hank to moan loud and pained. His skin has been on fire ever since Connor started to fuck him, and now the pinprick drag of his sire’s fangs brings to him another swarming wave of pleasure. There’s so much now, too much, and the strain of it all is making him lose his mind.

If Connor is aware of what he’s doing he doesn’t show it at all, only keeping up with his thrusts and the movement of his hand. _You beg for climax. To lose yourself entirely to me. Is that what you want, my blood? Do you want me to bite down as I fuck you senseless with my cock?_

It’s all so good and yet so cruel at the same time. Hank can feel the corners of his eyes prickling with tears as the ache to be bitten and claimed and owned by his sire becomes nearly unbearable. He wants so much that it doesn’t matter that he would have never done something as pathetic as crying for something like this. He needs it so badly that it's all he can think about. Even if Connor asks him for his name now, he thinks he wouldn’t be able to answer the question. The only thing he knows for certain is _Connor_.

“ _ **Yes,**_ ” he moans out, whining and begging and pleading and willing to do anything at all as long as it means he can come. “Please, please, _please!_ ”

He hears Connor moan back in return, and the next thing he’s aware of is the gentle press of his sire’s fangs right over the scars on his neck. Just the mere feel of it is enough to make him cry and try to press up against them, but the pleasure has weakened him to the point where all he can do is to tremble and writhe uselessly underneath his sire. 

Connor's voice is demanding this time when he speaks. _Tell me. Tell me what you want me to do, and I will give it to you._

It should be shameful at how those words are all that it takes for Hank to crack, but at this point he’s so desperate and gone that nothing else matters except for his release.

 _Bite me,_ Hank gasps out, voice almost coming out in a sob as he tries to slam back against Connor’s unerring thrusts as best as he can. _**Bite me,** please._ He’s built up so much want that it's _painful_ , and every unnecessary breath feels like it’s both too much and not enough. He just _needs_ it so much. _I’m begging you._

Connor has to have heard him, but yet he doesn't respond, only intensifying the pace of his fucking. The pleasure is so much now that his moans turn into screams, Hank wailing at every thrust as he feels his sire's cock slam mercilessly against his prostate. Any remaining stubbornness or pride that he might have tried to hold onto has long been torn and shredded into pieces by the onslaught on pleasure and want that has cast him all the way down here. Nothing else matters now except coming. Nothing else matters except Connor. Nothing else matters except his master. 

_Please,_ he begs again, and this time there is no way to hide the hitch in his voice as he sobs, desperate for release. _Please let me come, Master._

He hears Connor let out a soft growl at the words. _As you wish,_ he returns, and then, finally, the permission that Hank had been pleading for all this time. _**Come.**_

There’s no time to process the relief that comes when Connor finally release his hold on him, because he also bites down into his neck in that same moment and everything comes crashing together at once. He feels his orgasm barrelling into him, the pleasure from it further heightened by the sharp sweet pain of his master's bite, and all of that floods him entirely, so powerful and overwhelming that his vision whites out. He feels himself coming messily all over his body, a dying whine in his throat as he shakes violently around Connor, every part of him wound up so tight that the release seems to go on forever.

As he comes Connor continues to fuck him, every thrust of his hips now violent and unrelenting. His master growls against his neck, slamming into him a few more times before his hips stutter and his sire finally comes as well, releasing in hot, warm spurts inside of him. He shudders at the bursts of heat that fill him up completely, and it's so good that Hank can only let himself be swept up by the proverbial tide. He lets it carry him away and drag him under, drowning him fully in both of their pleasures and the raw power of his master that crashes over him.

What’s left of Hank sags and pants loudly as his body continues to shiver and tremble with the echoes of his orgasm, his mind empty and devoid of any thought. There’s nothing else but his master and the wonderful pain and pleasure of being taken and claimed by him. It is all that he is now. Just this. Just Connor. A good fledgling like he’s always meant to be.

He feels his master panting into his neck, his power tapering down around them once the height of his master’s pleasure passes them as well. Connor suckles at his neck for a while more before pulling away, and he whines at the loss of his master’s fangs at his neck. 

Connor hushes him by licking at the wound until it’s properly healed, then nuzzles up to his jaw, pressing a kiss onto his forehead. _You were so good, my blood,_ he hears him say, and the praise makes him preen. To be good for his master is all he wants to do, and it fills him with satisfaction to know that he has accomplished that. It's so wonderful to be good for his master, his sire who cares for him so well.

His master’s power shifts, washing over him in a soothing caress as Connor works to resettle them both. His master pulls out of him, eliciting out a soft whine, but is quickly placated by the closeness that they have when Connor shifts to pull him into his arms. He’s brought to rest against Connor’s chest as his master nuzzles into his hair, hands gently stroking his back and sides. The attention that his sire lavishes onto him has him purring as he soaks it all up, happy to revel in it all. 

No words are needed from Connor for him to feel it. He is content. He is sated. His sire is happy which means he is happy and his skin and body still tingles pleasantly from the joy of being taken and claimed as he melts into his master’s embrace.

With as close as they are he can feel the warmth of his master’s own pleasure thrumming through him, echoing with his own and keeping him content. The way Connor continues to touch him helps with that too, and when his sire moves one hand up to cup his chin to tilt his head up he doesn’t even think of doing anything else except to follow. He looks up at his master and sees the smiles that crosses his face before Connor leans in to kiss him soundly. He groans softly and sinks into it, happy to return the kiss, shivering when he feels Connor’s other hand resting at the back of his neck, fingers rubbing at the nape.

 _So wonderful,_ his master croons through their bond, now glowing bright and warm from the contentment that they both share. He can feel his sire’s influence seeping into him, curling around the very core of his being to hold him so gently, like a cocoon of the softest blankets that he can sink into. _So exquisite. You are everything I would have dreamed of._ The words are a balm to everything inside of him, soothing and wonderful and perfect and it makes him smile dreamily into their kiss. Connor is perfect, and he is happy to belong to him.

Connor shifts his hand to delve his fingers into his hair, keeping up the kiss and humming against his lips, neither of them hindered by the need to breathe. _You must be tired after all that,_ he says, _Sleep will do you good._

Sleep does indeed sound good. He can feel exhaustion creeping up on him as soon as Connor mentions that, making his eyelids flutter as the tiredness seeps into every part of him. He’s forced to break off the kiss so that he can lie down properly, yawning tiredly as he feels his master’s power and influence draping over him like a warm, comfortable blanket on a cold winter’s day. The hand at his hair begins to stroke, the sensation soothing him down to his core, and the warm press of lips at his forehead keeps him calm and happy. To be able to get this much attention… he truly does have the best sire of all.

With how comfortable he feels it doesn’t take long at all for him to drift off. He falls asleep just like this, peaceful and content, wrapped securely in the soothing cradle of his sire’s power. Everything else can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [secret karma serenade](https://youtu.be/jcFuxKlg_VY).
> 
> Well. That certainly was a chapter and a half to write lmfao. You all don't want to know how red my face got at the end of this.
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> As always, big thanks to **jj** for the awesome beta, and **Jan** , the eternal partner in crime who continues to enable this. Also to **Mao** who gave me a lot of encouragement to keep on going while I was dying writing the NSFW section lmaooo.
> 
> Still, now that this chapter is out hope you all enjoy it! I'm gonna say outright that this is gonna be the last bit of porn that will happen for a while because stuff... happens... and also you can bet that Hank isn't going to be happy about what happened next chapter. :'D
> 
> Once again, feel free to follow me on Twitter **@tasogareika** if you desire to hear me screech and/or complain as I write the next chapter and beyond, alongside my eternal retweets about other Hank/Connor related stuff. There's a good chance that next chapter might only be out in Feb, as the Hankcon 18 Big Bang is posting is coming up at the end of this month so I need to prepare for that. Not to mention that Kingdom Hearts 3 is dropping around that time as well... so many things to be excited about in the near future heh heh.
> 
> Thank you all once again for sticking around with this journey with me thus far, and especially after this chapter. All the support for this fic/verse means a lot to me and I truly appreciate it. :)


	6. ambiguous drum of grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet another night after, and an obligatory training montage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Dubcon (though nothing that leads to sex this time), continued power imbalances. some mindfuckery.
> 
> ALSO before going on with the chapter--Mao ( **@chococo_mao** ) on Twitter drew two amazing pieces of art from the previous chapter!! [One SFW picture](https://twitter.com/chococo_mao/status/1082132498388140034) and [one semi-NSFW picture](https://twitter.com/chococo_mao/status/1086796819596599296)!! Feel free to check them out and show her love and support for drawing such cool pieces of art!! <333 
> 
> Without further ado, please enjoy this chapter!

It is nighttime when Hank wakes up. 

Or rather, it is nighttime _again_ , because some part of him simply knows without needing to be told that another whole day has passed, and once again the irony of the whole situation does not pass by him. Back when he had been human he could barely get a full night’s sleep without having to resort to alcohol. Figures that it’d take being dead and becoming a fucking monster to finally be able to have that.

Then again, it could very well be due to the other occupant who’s in bed with him. Hank hardly needs to guess who it is, because there can only be one person who would nuzzle into his hair like that without a care in the world. It’s still a hell of a strange feeling, waking up in a room that he still doesn’t quite fully recognize, naked as the day he was born, while being held in some vampire’s arms.

Hank lets Connor continue to do all of… that… as he attempts to think back to the night before in order to piece together what had happened. He knows they left the meeting, had gotten out of the fancy office building the Council had their little meeting in, then came back to this room via Connor’s fancy shadow powers or whatever the hell they’re supposed to be. They came back here, then they were kissing and Connor had pressed him down onto this bed and… 

He feels something opening up in the pit of his stomach when he realizes that his memories more or less… vanish at that point. Well, not instantly. There’s a vague recollection of Connor hovering above him and looking down at him with bright red eyes. It quickly gets hazy though as some part of him recalls Connor talking to him, _commanding_ him, and then eventually there’s nothing else at all. As much as Hank wants to say that he simply blacked out, he knows it to be otherwise. He knows, because his neck throbs with the telltale itch of a bite that he doesn’t remember happening at all.

That realization certainly doesn’t help to ease the discomfort that’s quickly rising from his gut. None of this is a good feeling by any means.

Hank nudges back his elbow to get Connor’s attention, scowling as he speaks. “Get off me.”

Unsurprisingly, Connor doesn’t respond. He presses a kiss to the back of his neck instead (to which Hank had to do his best to suppress the sensation of _good_ because fuck no) before drawing back.

“Good evening,” he begins, entirely undeterred by Hank’s words. “How are you feeling?”

Yeah, Hank isn’t in the mood to entertain this crap. “Get. Off.” He growls this time and attempts to wriggle himself away from Connor’s grasp. It doesn’t take too much, at least—Connor manages to get the memo and pulls away after a few moments, allowing Hank to shift himself over to the edge of the bed. 

Hank moves to sit up once he’s there, putting his back to Connor so that he has some—distance, he figures, even though part of him is quickly realizing that having that is probably going to be impossible given their… connection. But he’ll take what he can get right now, given how he currently feels. 

“If you really want to know how I feel right now,” he says, voice still very much a growl, “I feel like I got fucking roofied.”

A brief pause, and then Hank hears the sounds of the bedsheets being shuffled around as Connor shifts in bed too. “What does ‘roofied’ mean?”

Hank almost wants to look back at Connor and go ‘seriously?’ but maybe it really shouldn’t be that surprising that Connor wouldn’t know what that word means. What with him being at least over a hundred or something—vampires always seemed to him like they could never move past the time they lived in when human, and roofied is… well, probably pretty modern by Connor’s standards. 

So instead Hank lets out a loud exhale through his nose. “It means I feel like you drugged me,” he explains, since it does lead into what he intends to say next. He raises his head then, about to turn back and face Connor this time, but before he can do that his eyes are stuck on the sight of a… pile of things casually left on the floor next to the foot of the bed. A very familiar pile of things, actually. Hank is pretty sure he recognizes that shirt sleeve that’s sticking out underneath an equally recognizable paperback novel. 

Hank decides that he can deal with that later. He forces his eyes away from the pile and turns to face Connor fully, the disgust in his gut warring with the feeling of comfort still threatening to take over him as his instincts whispers to him _this is your sire, shouldn’t you be happy?_

“I can’t remember most of last night,” he begins, and as much as Hank tries to make himself sound neutral there’s no real way to stop the anger and hurt and hatred that’s already edging into his voice, “but I’m gonna take a wild guess and say that you took advantage of me. Y’know, _brainwashed_ me.” A pause. “Am I wrong?”

Connor frowns at the question, looking as if confused by it, and that confusion is audible as well in his reply. “If you were indeed brainwashed, then you wouldn’t even be aware that it’s happening in the first place.” 

Well… okay, Hank balks. That’s fair, he supposes. Connor did have a point there. No vampire he had hunted had ever been _that_ sloppy with their brainwashing. And considering Connor’s power, it’d make even less sense for him to not do it well. Not exactly a pleasant thought to entertain, but the point has been made. Doesn’t exactly stop a bad taste from settling in Hank’s mouth when Connor himself says that he wasn’t doing what he _could_ have been doing. Is he supposed to thank him for not totally wiping his mind of free will? Fuck, maybe? His instincts keep going on about how he should be _happy_ , his sire must’ve clearly enjoyed it, why is Hank fighting something that’s totally normal by vampire standards?

Because he’s not interested in vampire standards. They suck.

“Ugh.” His mouth dry and his voice tired, Hank shakes his head. He saw how bad it could get, with the Council. Vampires are practically _taught_ that they’re supposed to brainwash people. Maybe he really should be grateful. And Connor doesn’t seem to get that what he did was wrong, so he’ll just have to explain. “Fine. But, uh, what exactly happened last night? You… whatever you did to me—if I can’t remember, then I probably wasn’t all there, you got that? It wasn’t _me_.” So maybe Hank’s mostly just disappointed and upset about this entire thing rather than actually hating Connor, who seriously didn’t know any better, but his point still stands. Whatever the hell Connor did to him last night… that had not been what he signed up for. Losing himself like that is the last thing Hank wants to happen, especially when there’s no telling what the hell he could wind up saying yes to.

The confusion from Connor’s end only seems to increase. “We simply had sex, the same as the night before,” he says and then pauses, head tilting to the side. “Are you having an issue with that because you were not the one penetrating me?”

Was it—Jesus Christ, did he really just hear that question come out from Connor’s mouth? Hank stares at him for a good second in disbelief before he gives into the desire to slowly drag a hand down his face, hissing out a pained “ _No._ ” God, he’s really going to have to explain this, doesn’t he.

Hank forces himself to take in a deep breath before speaking. “The problem is that it wasn’t _me_. I wasn’t—I wasn’t in control.” After that hazy recollection of Connor he mostly just has a sense of passing out—which is clearly not what had happened. “You may as well have been jerking off, because unless I can actually _consent_ , it's not me. Does that make any damn sense to you?”

By this point the confusion showing on Connor’s face is pretty… it's pretty evident, that’s for sure. It also kinda makes Connor look like he’s constipated… if vampires had to deal with issues like constipation anyway. That is not a train of thought that Hank wants to go down when they’re talking about sex.

“You consented to the sex,” Connor says after a pause, and despite the words his voice is far from accusatory. Connor genuinely sounds confused, as if the whole concept of Hank’s question is foreign to him. Which is not exactly comforting. “Unless you mean you do not remember that part.”

He frowns, and focuses his gaze onto Hank properly. “Is that the issue? That you do not remember?”

Hank resists the urge to facepalm again. This… he really is going to have to explain the whole shebang, it seems. Christ. “Sort of, yeah. I mean, I did—I wanted to have sex with you.” That part, Hank doesn’t have an issue with. It’s… the other half of it. “The problem is that I don’t remember what happened, because I wasn’t in _control_. Which—okay, that’s something I could be into, but if you can make me do stuff with your mind, if has to be something we talk about and something for me to agree on when we’re like this.” He gestures between them to make his point clear. “Just talking.”

Connor tilts his head and frowns again, still looking incredibly confused. “So, if we wish to do anything during sex, we’re required to talk about it beforehand?” At least he sounds genuinely curious, even if the question is… well. Hank has the sudden urge to put on some clothes now, because this really isn’t a conversation he wants to have while naked.

He runs a hand through his hair and bites down on a sigh. “Yeah,” he says after a pause. “We have to make sure we _both_ want it. Because when we’re fucking, it kinda feels like I’d pretty much say yes to anything you say.” That’s certainly the impression he had gotten from the last two nights, at the very least. The first time Hank could at least reason with himself that he still had control of himself for the most part, but last night… last night Hank had totally lost himself, and that’s the part he has an issue with. Which—yeah, it sucks a hell of a lot, but he can’t exactly stop the fact that he’s Connor’s First now. Considering the attitude of the Council, Hank is well aware that he’s lucky to even be able to have this talk at all. “You turned me into this. Your… fledging, or whatever. Kinda seems like that means my body’s all here to get fucked by you, but my head might not always be on the same train. Got that?”

Apparently not, he thinks, judging by the almost instantaneous answer that he gets from Connor. “I don’t want you to say no to me,” he says, and the face that Connor is making while saying those words is… Hank doesn’t want to call it _pouting_ except that’s pretty much the only word he can think of to describe the expression that Connor makes. It’s certainly a hell of a look to sport on a vampire that’s over a century old, and maybe in other situations Hank might have been willing to call it endearing, but considering the subject matter at hand it is anything but.

Hank can’t stop the sigh that escapes him this time around. “Yeah, well, it’s not about _you_. It’s about both of us.” God, it's not hard to feel like he’s dealing with a century year old kid instead of a century year old… whatever the hell Connor is. “If I can’t say no, then me saying ‘yes’ doesn’t mean a damn thing. It’s not a choice when there’s only one option, yeah? That’s pretty much the same as fucking brainwashing me at that point.”

Connor—who had started to nod along to Hank’s words somewhere along the way—nods one more time and hums as soon as Hank is done speaking. “Having no options is the same as being forced.” The way Connor says those words makes it sound like he’s just discovered a new idea or something, which is… yeah, he’s got no words for it. Once again Hank can’t say that he’s surprised, but it really further cements to him just how shitty vampires are. 

Consent. Fucking groundbreaking, apparently. Hank makes a face, though before he can make any further remarks Connor looks at him again and gives a nod. “Very well. Everytime we want to have sex, we will talk about it beforehand.”

Hank nods in return. “Right. No point having ‘free will’ when the free part really isn’t there.” It’s certainly a step in the right direction, at least. Even though he can’t remember what happened last night, it's better than having to look forward to an eternity of nights like that. At least now it’ll just be a one time thing. Or that is the hope, anyway. Connor does kind of seem like he’s taking his words to heart, so that’s… somewhat reassuring. He might be a monster, but at least he’s been keeping to all the other stuff he’s said so far. That’s something.

And now that he’s got _that_ particular conversation dealt with, Hank thinks it's about high time he turns his attention to the new… stuff that’s been brought into the room. He gets out of bed and heads over to the pile of stuff left onto the floor, looking at it more closely. Those are definitely his clothes, and those are also definitely his paperbacks along with all the other junk that were all clearly taken from his house. Connor did say that he would clear out his place for him… somehow it didn’t occur to him until now that Connor might have decided to go ahead and do it without him. Hank thinks he would have at least appreciated a heads up about it rather than waking up to know that Connor’s already ransacked his house, even if he had given him permission. 

No use dwelling on that, though. It’s not like he can go back and get on Connor’s case about messing with his stuff and dragging mud into Hank’s shitty (former?) home. Hank lets out another sigh and starts rummaging through the pile, attempting to find a suitable pair of underwear to put on. He really fucking hopes that Connor actually remembers to bring some underwear—last thing he needs on top of everything else is having to go commando for eternity. He doesn’t want to imagine the potential chafing he’d have to deal with.

While he’s busy searching he hears Connor humming behind him again, sounding as if lost in thought. He’d been quiet for a bit, but he finally speaks up as Hank pulls a few more faded plaid shirts out of the pile. “Do humans always do this?”

It takes a few seconds for Hank to process the question. “‘This’ being... asking for consent?” he replies, as he turns with a pair of boxers in hand (thank god, there _is_ underwear in this mess). “Kind of, yeah. At least for anybody who isn’t a scumbag.” Or a vampire, he mentally tacks on, but Hank knows better than to voice that aloud.

Hank takes a quick second to put on his underwear, already starting to feel better once he actually has some clothes on him. He turns his attention back to his pile of stuff and starts picking out the rest of his clothes to wear from the mess of everything else that’s in there. It’s obvious enough that Connor didn’t bring everything here, so how the hell did he decide what to take and what to leave behind? 

He’s about to ask that question when Connor speaks up again. “Consent,” he begins, still saying the word like it's something groundbreaking when it really isn’t. “It sounds very similar to Permission.” 

Hank very definitely hears the capital ‘P’ there. He turns to face Connor again, this time with a shirt that he’s managed to dig out. He turns it over before opting to toss it aside to pick out another as he asks, “Is ‘Permission’ supposed to mean something besides ‘asking for it’?”

Connor, ever still and observing, inclines his head and responds. “It is usually a ceremony of sorts, only reserved for the most important of rites.”

A blink. “Rites?” Hank echoes with a frown, brain racking as he tries to go through his own knowledge of vampires to see if he knows what Connor is talking about. Blood sacrifices? Naked moon dances? No, that wasn’t vampires… “What kinda rites?”

“Mating, usually.” Connor lifts his shoulder in what looks like a careless shrug. “And long ago, when a First would ask their sire to be released from their services.”

Okay, so nothing that he’d have known about. But that aside, he’s pretty sure that the latter of those opportunities isn’t going to happen any time soon, given what he saw at the Council. He suppresses a shudder at the memory of all those other Firsts, the way they looked so blank and empty. It really shouldn’t be a comfort to think that he’s stuck with Connor, but it is. Even if the comfort it gives is miniscule at best. Hank’s never been too picky, he’ll take what he can get.

Hank manages to find another shirt and looks at it. Yeah, this'll probably do. He starts to put it on, slipping an arm through the sleeve as he goes with the questions. “So, ‘mating?’ You guys do that? I thought vampires just turned people.” It’s one thing to be able to have sex despite being undead, but _mating_ feels like a whole other thing entirely. 

“Turning is how we propagate, yes.” Hank can feel Connor staring at him as he works on dressing himself up properly; he sure as hell doesn’t know how to feel about that, but at least he doesn’t have to dwell on it as Connor continues to explain. “Mating is—different. A union between two bloodlines, or even between the same ones. One seeks Permission from the other to have their blood be intertwined for eternity.”

Hank gives Connor a disbelieving look as soon as he’s gotten his arm through the other sleeve of the shirt he’s currently putting on. “So what, you guys bite each other and drink each other’s blood on a full moon or something?”

Connor gives another shrug. Bastard doesn’t even breathe, you’d think he could stand to be a little more expressive. “Something to that extent,” is all he says.

So that was essentially, what, some fancy vampire marriage? Hank scoffs as he looks back at the pile of his stuff. He really can’t find it in himself to be surprised that vampires would make a whole fucking _ritual_ about getting consent between each other, but otherwise the concept may as well be some modern invention. He’s quickly getting the impression that consent tends to be an optional thing for them rather than a requirement. God, how fucked is that.

Hank picks out and puts on the first pair of pants that he manages to find; everything that he’s wearing is a certain mismatch with each other, and even Hank has to admit that this is all pretty unflattering. But it’s not as if he’s really dressed to impress anybody—especially not Connor. Considering how Connor’s already pretty much seen all of him and more, he’s pretty much the last person whose opinion Hank is concerned about.

He stares down at the stuff he’s wearing now that he’s actually dressed, making a face as something about Connor’s particular choice of things clicks in his mind. “Did you just grab all the best shit from my house?” Now that he’s said it aloud, Hank can definitely see the pattern in Connor’s selection; he’s more or less brought all the things that Hank knows he personally likes. And that is—certainly something. 

Hank glances up after asking that question to see Connor nodding eagerly back at him. “I thought you’d like them.”

Well, it’d be a lie to say he doesn’t like them, though the whole point is moot since everything in here is stuff that he likes. Hank turns his gaze back down to look at them some more. It is pretty nice to actually have his own things, even though most of what they’ll do is to remind him that his life—his old life—is over. Not exactly a fun thing to dwell on.

Sighing again Hank pulls out a pair of boots from the pile and puts them on, grumbling a few choice words under his breath as he laces them up. “You trying to bribe me here or something?” He grouses out. As much as he appreciates it, he certainly has no intention of _thanking_ Connor—after killing him and turning him into this, this is probably the least he should do.

“I said I’d clear out your residence for you,” Connor replies, rather matter of factly. “It’d be a shame to just simply get rid of everything you once possessed.”

Huh. That’s something he didn’t quite expect to hear, considering how possessive Connor is. He voices out as much, too. “Funny, I would’ve taken you as the type to salt and burn my old shit, what with being ‘yours’ and everything.” He pats down the clothes he’s wearing while saying that; he definitely feels himself feeling better now that he’s fully dressed in his own clothes and no longer naked. There’s just something relaxing and mind-numbing about going through the motions and having something familiar and comfortable to wear. 

“You are mine, and so it stands to reason that what you have is mine as well.” He hears the bed shifting as Connor speaks, and Hank looks up to see Connor getting out of bed too. Just like the other night the shadows rise up from underneath his feet to cover his body entirely—save for his head—and Hank can see the shape of Connor’s clothing forming from the darkness. Hank can’t quite stop the shudder that runs through him as he watches; it’s still creepy, even if it is convenient.

The shadows only stay on Connor for a few moments once they’re fully formed, melting away to reveal a very familiar outfit—familiar because it's the very same clothes Connor had been wearing on that night. The night that they met, the night where…

Hank stops that thought before it finishes and turns his gaze away from Connor. It’s fine. He’s fine. It’s not like he has any say in what Connor wears. He’s already worn the very clothes he died in, so seeing Connor wearing the clothes that he had on when he killed him shouldn’t be anything different. Right? Right.

Either way, it doesn’t matter. Not any more. “Everything mine is yours now and I don’t get a say in it? _Great_.” Fucking fantastic. He’s absolutely thrilled. 

He hears the soft _click_ of Connor’s polished leather shoes against the floor as Connor walks closer to where he is. “Your items are still yours,” Connor says to him, “They just also belong to me by proxy.”

Yeah, that doesn’t really make it any better. Hank is not at all fond of the idea that none of his stuff is just ‘his’ but he knows that he’s got no choice but to get used to it. Still doesn’t mean he has to like it, though. 

Connor walks past him as Hank finishes patting himself down, heading towards the door, and Hank kind of finds himself just watching Connor. He… he isn’t entirely sure what to do or say here. This isn’t exactly a one night stand where either party leaves and they resume their lives. There is a very real and distinct reality that he has to start facing now, as much as he hates it. 

Thankfully, he’s spared from wondering about _that_ to wondering about the weird scratching noises that suddenly start to come from the other side of the door. Hank glances over to it and frowns at the sound. “The hell is that?”

All Hank gets in return is a smile—because of course he does—and Hank would be more annoyed about that if it isn’t for what happens next. Connor opens the door and into the room bounces a _very_ familiar St. Bernard, all fluff and tail wags and excitable energy. 

“Wha—” Hank starts, spluttering, unable to quite believe what he’s seeing. It’s—it’s his dog. It’s _Sumo_... who somehow already seems excited just from seeing Connor. _Traitor_ , he can’t help but think, though he really can’t be mad about it. It’s impossible to be mad at Sumo when he’s been the only loyal companion at his side all these years. God, in the mess of everything that’s happened since waking up to his undead life here Hank really hasn’t had a chance to think about his goddamn dog. He didn’t even consider the possibility that Connor would have made the effort to bring him here too. It’s… well, he can’t say he doesn’t appreciate it. Can’t really stay mad when Sumo is there.

He takes a step forward, happy and eager to reunite with his dog, but then stops when his movement draws Sumo’s attention and the St. Bernard instantly tenses up the moment he lays eyes on him. Hank feels the pit in his stomach opening up again when he sees Sumo becoming scared and confused and wary of him. It _hurts_ , seeing his own dog react to him like this, even though logically he knows the reason why. He probably smells dead to Sumo, even though he looks the same as before. He had trained Sumo from a young age to stay away from monsters, to bark and let others know when danger is close. But right now, Hank himself _is_ that dangerous monster, and god if that wasn’t enough to fuck up anybody, let alone his dog.

Hank takes a careful, measured step closer towards him, keeping a wary eye himself on how high Sumo’s haunches are raised. He makes sure to keep his movements slow and deliberate to show Sumo that he doesn’t mean any harm, and slowly holds out his hand, palm facing up, and gives Sumo have the chance to sniff and hopefully recognize his scent.

“Hey, boy,” he starts, trying and failing to stop the way his voice cracks just from this alone. “It’s… yeah. It’s me.” He inches his hand closer, hoping to encourage Sumo to try and sniff him, but the dog backs away with a small warning growl, only to be silenced when Connor pats him on the head.

Hank shoots a tired glare towards Connor. “Let him growl.” As much as he’s aware that Connor is trying to help, the last thing he wants is for Connor’s influence to spread onto _Sumo_ of all things. The dog doesn’t need to be thrown into all of this.

Connor gives Hank a cursory look in return, but acquises. He shifts his hand to rub his fingers over the crown of Sumo’s head instead, voice soft as croons to the St. Bernard, “It’s your owner, Sumo,” he mutters, a smile audible in his tone. “I know you’ve missed him. Go, and reunite.”

He pats Sumo on the flank after those words and pulls away entirely, and this time Sumo does trot forward to cautiously start sniffing at Hank’s hand. Hank can only imagine how difficult this must be for Sumo to understand; the hesitancy that Sumo is showing tells him everything that he needs to know. There’s no other way to force this—Hank knows that all he can do is to wait.

Eventually, it seems like Sumo’s lovable and gentle nature wins over his uncertainty. He presses his nose onto Hank’s hand and licks at his fingers, and Hank feels his dead heart ache.

“Yeah, it’s me.” God, he can’t cry. He shouldn’t cry, but he wants to. “Still me.” 

Sumo licks at his fingers for a while more and then approaches closer, starting to sniff him all over, most likely to refamiliarize with his new scent. Hank more or less lets it happen, keeping one eye on Sumo while Connor speaks to him. “He will have to adjust to a night schedule, but beyond that there should be no issues. This house is big enough for him to run around.”

Hank runs his hand over Sumo’s fur as the St. Bernard continues to sniff him. It’s clear enough that this seems to be a bribe of some sort, though he isn’t exactly sure what it's for. But there’s no doubt that Connor got Sumo for him and while his instincts tell him to be grateful, his instincts are also completely shit right now and Hank knows that he’s going to have to think with his brain if he ever intends to get out of this whole thing with his mind still intact. 

He glances over to Connor. “Is is safe to just let Sumo run around? I mean, I don’t even know if you actually have a backyard in this damn place. All you’ve done so far is fucked me and taken me out for a ride. This place could house a whole damn vampire village as far as I know.”

Connor tilts his head in response, blinking once before speaking. “He’ll be safe inside the house, at least,” comes an answer, which isn’t bad, but isn’t exactly the only thing that Hank is concerned about. Fortunately he doesn’t have to try and press for more as Connor continues on. “There is a forest nearby, to the south, with occasional wolves. They shouldn’t pose a threat, but it’ll be easier for Sumo if he remains indoors.”

Hank gives Connor a look. Wolves? Here? Feels a little far fetched, but Connor has been staying in this spot for probably far longer than he’s lived thus far, so Hank supposes he doesn’t have much of a leg on that particular debate. But still… “Unless you want Sumo to piss all over this place, you’re gonna have to let him out.” 

A snuffle at his knee draws Hank’s attention down to the St. Bernard, and Hank lets a small smile across his face. “No offence, boy. I know you got needs.” He reaches down and idly pats Sumo on his furry head, unable to stop himself from relishing the feel of his soft fur. Even if bringing Sumo is a bribe, Hank can’t deny how much more comfortable he feels having his dog around again. He can slowly start to put things in perspective now. Things almost, _almost_ can start to feel normal.

Connor hums softly. “As long as he is accompanied, he should be fine.”

Well, that exactly isn’t anything new. “Right,” he returns with a nod, “That ain’t too different.” Except the fact that Sumo will probably only ever get to see the night, what with the whole vampire thing going on. Hank really doubts Niles is going to want to walk his dog. And now that Sumo is around again part of him can’t help but think how him being a vampire is going to affect Sumo in the long run which… is something he absolutely does not want to dwell on. Not any time soon. He knows he has to some day, but right now he’s got enough on his plate—the first of which is what happens in his immediate future. 

“So,” Hank starts, turning his gaze back to Connor while continuing to pet his dog, “What’s next? I get that you want me to live here, but what else besides that? Am I supposed to decorate this room, or is there going to be another of those meetings that I need to go with you again or something?”

Connor raises an eyebrow in response, though his expression is something close to what Hank can describe as amusement. “Nothing like that. As mentioned before, I will begin to instruct you on your powers, and we will prepare for your Presentation.”

Right. That. That certainly is a thing that’s going to happen. “You’re actually gonna train me, then?” Hank can’t help but ask, recalling again the attitude of the Council. He can’t say he wouldn’t pass the chance to one up them where possible. “Sure your Council friends won’t claim you’re teaching a hunter how to kill ‘em all?”

Connor frowns at his words this time round. “You are my fledgling. It is my duty to instruct you, regardless of what others may think.”

Not much he can argue to that—not that he really intended to in the first place. He’s still a little lukewarm on the whole fledgling thing, but one thing he does know for sure is that he hates those Council bastards way more than he hates Connor. A hell of a thing to admit to himself considering that Connor is still the guy who killed him, but he _had_ also been under instructions to do so. It doesn’t give him much comfort, but it's a small step up from other vampires who usually just went around killing like nobody’s business.

Still a hell of a fucked up thing though. Hank lets out a breath and scruffs at Sumo’s ears, hearing the dog giving a low _boof_ in response. “Alright,” he mutters, mostly to himself, and then louder for Connor to hear. “So we starting soon, or later, or what?”

“We can start tonight.” Connor reaches out for the door handle and rests his hand upon it. “I will take my leave first to prepare. Meet me at the front doors of the house in about two hours.”

“Sure,” Hank replies at first, not really thinking about it, and then the words do sink into him and he does a double take. “Wait, you’re leaving me alone?” That’s, well. That’s surprising, considering Connor’s… everything. It almost felt like with him being an extension of Connor or whatever it is, would have to be at his side at all times. Not that he liked it or anything, but it felt like he didn’t have much of a choice in that matter.

Connor pauses in the middle of opening the door and glances over to Hank, eyebrow raised once more. “I thought you’d appreciate the time alone,” he asks, sounding somewhat confused. “But I would not be averse to you accompanying me if you so desire.”

“I, uh, yeah.” Hank finds himself spluttering, somehow totally caught off guard by the response. “I mean, I appreciate it. Having my own time, that is.” Why is this so awkward? Hank clears his throat. “Just, uh. Didn’t really expect it. Thought you'd be more… overbearing than this.” It almost feels surreal, honestly. It’s a hell of a curveball, after the last two nights.

A blink, and a tilt of the head, and Connor is speaking again. “You’ve expressed several times your dislike of not being allowed your own individuality,” he says, rather matter of factly. “I cherish your presence, but your contentment is of the greatest priority to me. If allowing you your own time to assert your sense of self helps that, I am willing to acquiesce.”

Hank has to take a moment to stare at Connor after those words because—because yeah, that is definitely a surprise. But for once it's actually kind of a good one, and Hank’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a little warmed by that. Sure, Connor might be using big words here and ultimately he’s well aware that Connor is probably doing all this to just get onto his good side but… it's still something. People don’t normally go out of their way to try and do stuff for somebody like him, so even though he knows—he’s still sort of touched by it.

He feels the corners of his lips threatening to twitch into a smile but Hank turns away before Connor can see it. “Okay. Yeah, I guess.” It’s nice, despite everything. It’s definitely a nice change. “See you later.”

For better or for worse Connor doesn’t call him out on his reaction. All he hears is the sound of the door opening, and the quiet tap of Connor’s shoes against the floor as he steps out.

“Until then,” Connor says to him, and Hank only gets to hear his footsteps for a second more after that before the door shuts back close and Hank suddenly finds himself left to his own devices.

The silence that follows is definitely a little discomforting after the whirlwind he’s been going through, but Hank brushes it aside and looks over to Sumo, bemused at the way the St. Bernard has already settled himself comfortably onto a spot on the floor, right next to the pile of stuff that Connor had brought back from his old place. He should probably deal with that first before anything else; leaving it in a pile like this isn’t going to help him in any way. Besides, he figures that the menial work might help to clear his head a little.

“Right,” he mutters to himself as he rolls up his sleeves. “Let’s get all of this shit sorted out properly.”

Sumo lets out a low _boof_ in agreement.

* * *

After all the time he’s spent stuck with Connor over the last two days (nights?), it’s definitely a little weird to suddenly have time to himself like this. Hank isn’t exactly complaining though. It’s nice to finally have some peace and quiet to himself after everything that’s happened so far.

Even as he ruffles through his things and puts them away in their respective places around this weird room that is now apparently his, Hank still can’t help but feel how surreal this whole situation still feels to him. Everything that’s happened since him waking up feels like a thunderstorm that he’s been thrown into, but now the storm has passed and he’s left here trying to patch up leaks and put everything back together. It’s still a bit hard to take in all this vampire stuff, but he’s drank blood and stood in a room full of stuffy, ancient vampires, so he can’t exactly deny that this is really happening.

And then there was the sex. Which, he notes grimly to himself, was definitely happening _a lot_. He really should stop putting out quite so much, but can he really help himself once Connor starts using his fucking vampire powers on him? As much as he hates to admit it, it did feel good—really good. Good enough that he was all for it yesterday, before things got out of hand. While he can’t recall much of what really went down, one thing he’s certain of is that he definitely enjoyed it, which is probably the best he can ask for. Somebody like him could easily do way, way worse than fucking around with somebody as hot as Connor.

With the amount of stuff that Connor brought back (Hank doesn’t really want to think on the exact specifics on how Connor managed it all), it takes most of those two hours that Connor had given to clear up the whole pile. He spends the remainder of the time to set Sumo up properly, placing down his food and water bowls—both of which were surprisingly included in the pile of stuff—at a suitable corner of the room. Water wasn’t much of an issue since this room had been fitted with an adjoining bathroom—Hank had been a little surprised to see it since he didn’t think vampires actually cared much for personal hygiene—but while Connor had found it fit to bring Sumo’s food bowl over, he clearly did not think the same for Sumo’s actual _food_. 

No real surprise there. Vampires don’t exactly _eat_. He’ll have to do something about that as soon as he was able to. He usually left out a lot of food for Sumo to go through when he had to go out for a job, so he knows that the dog would more or less be fine for a while more. But it would still be for the best if he could resolve that particular issue soon.

The most obvious choice here would be to talk to Connor about it, but Hank isn’t entirely sure if that’s the _best_ idea to go with. He doesn’t have a lot of options, short of leaving this place himself, which… well, he doesn’t know if that’s the best idea either. Last night was fine since he was stuck in a car and then got transported back with Connor’s fancy powers, but the thought of being alone out there, surrounded up all the people he could hurt… yeah, it’s probably for the best if he stays here. At least until he’s certain that he can keep himself and his new nature in check.

Needless to say that’s just the surface of all the shit he has on his mind. It’s almost surprising how quickly two hours seem to pass by, and before he knows it it's time for him to meet back up with Connor. Luckily he’s managed to pack everything up within that time, and helped Sumo to settle in better as well. It’ll still be a while before Sumo is entirely used to this place, but being a hunter had meant having to go from place to place pretty often. At least he’s used to the travel, which is generally the hardest part of it all.

Hank makes a mental note to himself on dealing with Sumo’s food situation later as he makes his way over to the main entrance of the house. The rest of this place is perhaps not-surprisingly bare: white walls, white doors, and everything following the same decor as the victorian-ish look in his house. Despite the old-fashioned shit, it doesn’t actually look all that old. Connor or Niles must be keeping the place up to date. Probably Niles, considering Connor doesn’t seem to give a fuck about anything besides his weird-ass whims. Hank will have to ask. Or maybe not, since he doesn’t actually give that much of a fuck.

Connor is already there waiting for him when he arrives, and though Hank knows he’s a couple of minutes late he doesn’t feel too guilty about it. It’s not as if losing a few minutes matters when… when they probably have a lot more than a few minutes to spare.

Connor inclines his head briefly in acknowledgement upon Hank’s arrival, and for some reason Hank can’t help but feel like there’s something a little _different_ in Connor. Like somehow he looks… less pale? He really can’t be certain. It could very well just but his mind misremembering something. Either way, he supposes it's not too important. 

“Alright,” he begins, squaring Connor with a look. “Where do we start?”

Connor tilts his head again, this time at the direction of the doors. “We start with what I promised first—tempering the hunger.” He straightens back up and gestures towards said doors that proceed to open up by themselves. More vampire powers at work, no doubt. “We will do this outside, on the grounds. Follow me.”

Hank nods, following after Connor as they cross the threshold to the outside. Once again they walk down the small set of stairs that lead out from the door but instead of continuing down the path, Connor steps away from the pavement and onto the grass, walking around to the side of the building—or rather, the mansion. At least, Hank is pretty certain he’s looking at a mansion now that he has time to actually take in what he’s seeing. It really is a huge-ass place. Possibly even large enough for him to try and hide around if he really wanted to run away from all of this.

It’d be a lie to say the urge isn’t there, to simply turn tail and flee and ignore everything that’s happening. But denial isn’t going to get him anywhere with this, and honestly? Running at this point will probably do more harm than good to himself. Not that he isn’t new to self-destruction, but he’d rather have a brand of that which _doesn’t_ involve the possibility of hurting innocent people. Ruining his own life is one thing. If this is what he has to deal with, than it's his own responsibility to ensure that he doesn’t hurt anybody else.

That’s all he can keep telling himself at this point. “Is it really something I can just learn like that? Would’ve thought that it's one of those things that ‘comes with time’ and stuff.”

“You will naturally have more control in time, but being aware of it from an early stage will accelerate the learning process.” Connor comes to a stop at a clearing and turns to face Hank, who stops as well. Connor tilts his head and studies him with a look, and Hank stares back, doing his best to not show his discomfort from being scrutinized so intently. 

A few (awkward) moments pass in silence before Connor finally speaks again. “How hungry would you say you feel right now?”

Hank blinks at the question. “Uh…” he begins, not really sure how to respond off the bat. It’s still strange as hell to think about his hunger, if he has to be honest about it. “Maybe a little, I guess? Don’t really have much of a frame of reference.” It’s hard to really pin down the feeling since it feels very different from how he had felt hunger back when he wasn’t… this. If anything it feels like some unholy combination of being hungry _and_ thirsty, but instead of a grumble in his stomach or a dryness at the back of his throat it works more like an itch in his skin that works its way through his entire body.

Connor hums in response. “It is fine,” he returns, “We will work with this for now.” 

He shifts, then, and starts to pace around Hank, walking in a circle around him as he launches into an explanation. “The hunger within us is as much of an entity as any of the senses that we possess. Though one cannot banish it entirely, it can be controlled to not consume the mind—although control is harder to come by if one is not satiated. There is usually no short term effects in squashing down the hunger. If done for long enough, however, it tends to have far more serious consequences.”

Hank gives a slow nod as he takes in that whole spiel. Right, he’s learned most of that through his time hunting. “And that’s how you could lose control and go all feral, right?” That tends to be the story of most vampires that he hunted—starved for long enough that they lose their minds and give into the bloodlust entirely, all reason and sense lost to the endless hunger. A hunger that he also has now, and as Hank attempts to pinpoint the weird feelings he gets when he thinks about drinking blood, he can’t help but think it should feel a lot more disgusting than how he’s feeling about it now.

“It is one of the ways, yes.” Connor is still circling around him but Hank can see the bob of his head when he nods. “Most Skals usually come as the result of uncontrolled bloodlust stemming from starvation, which in turn leads to their feral natures taking over.”

Skals—Hank’s heard that term before. Not very often, but enough for him to understand what Connor’s talking about. Contrary to the age old belief, anybody could be turned into a vampire, virgin or otherwise—Hank himself was an example of that. What people took for the myth of ‘ghouls’ was actually a vampire who had lost their sense of self and reason and only knew of the bloodlust that consumed them. In the hunter circles everyone still called them ‘ghouls’ since it was an apt enough description, but he’s heard the ‘Skal’ name used before by the vampires that he hunted. So that really was what they were called.

Even dead, you learn something new everyday. Hank thinks on this new bit of info for a while before something that Connor said catches his attention. “Wait, you said ‘most’. You mean there’s some other way to lose it? What the hell else if there?” A part of him isn’t entirely sure if he wants to know the answer, but being in the dark here wasn’t going to help either. If he is going to be in this, then he’d rather have all the knowledge that he can have.

There’s only a brief moment of silence from Connor before he answers. “A loss of sense, of self, which can happen through various other means. Without those only the hunger remains, and thus another Skal emerges.”

“...so a mental breakdown. _Neat._ ” More like _awful_ actually but it is… good to know, even if Hank can’t stop the shudder that runs through him at the thought. Still, it's also interesting to note how Connor had answered the question as well—from the way he described it, apparently it seemed like the terms were more of a way to describe tiers of power rather than an actual species. Did this mean that Skals were basically bottom tier fodder? 

Now that’s a thought he doesn’t want to entertain for too long. Even if that were true, they still gave no end of trouble to any hunters who had to deal with them. The fact that they were the lowest tier of vampire only makes everything worse. It’s a grim reminder of just how outmatched humans really are. 

Yeah, he’s just not gonna dwell on that for now, thanks. “Alright, fine, let’s move on.” Hank shakes his head to clear off his earlier thoughts and focuses back onto the subject at hand. “So, controlling the hunger, like you said earlier—how’s it work?”

This time Connor comes to a full stop next to Hank. “You temper the hunger as you would herd a wild beast,” he says, turning to face Hank. “Our hunger is our instinct given direction, and that direction leads us to what gives us sustenance. With enough focus and clarity you can redirect that instinct and keep it at bay for however long your body and will is able to manage it.”

Hank makes a face at the explanation. It’s not like he isn’t listening—he’s really trying to—but Connor’s words all sound so… fancy and theoretical. Focus? On what? Other shit? He can certainly feel that instinctive compulsion, and if there is one thing he’s good at it's knowing how to ignore his baser instincts and do shit his gut wouldn’t approve of. “So, you’re basically saying that if I keep busy and think about other stuff, I’ll be fine?”

Connor blinks and tilts his head, seemingly considering. “That’s a very gross oversimplification, but yes,” comes the reply, and Connor stares at Hank for a moment more before suddenly moving towards him. He comes to a stop right in front of Hank and holds out a hand. “It will probably be better for you that I lead by example.”

Hank blinks at the extended hand, glancing between it and Connor’s face. “You… want me to hold your hand?” Just so he’s clear on what is expected of him here. For all he know, holding out hands could be some weird vampire code for entirely different thing like ‘bite me’. Not that… he wants Connor to bite him. Not right now, anyway.

Connor dips his head in response, and Hank bites down a sigh. Well, he is already In This Shit, as they say, so he might as well just roll with this to the end. He reaches out and takes Connor’s hand in his own; Connor’s fingers curl around him once their hands meet, and Hank has to try and ignore how his hand feels so smooth and slender and perfect compared his own giant meaty paws. He shoots a questioning look over to Connor once they’re holding hands, but Connor doesn’t answer. Figures.

For a bit it feels like nothing’s really going on, but then all of a sudden Hank feels a touch in his mind. It’s definitely _Connor_ , that much he knows, but it's different from the other times he’s felt it. Unlike before where Hank would feel it pooling into him, now the sensation is more like a gentle, soft caress. There’s a shape and form to it as well—like a wave, he thinks—instead of something intangible, and the sensation of Connor waiting for permission is new for sure. 

“Woah,” he mutters, needing a good moment to take in these different sensations. “Okay.” It is a bit unnerving, admittedly, but Connor probably wouldn’t just be doing this if he didn’t have something in mind. Hank glances over to him again and gives a nod. Christ, he’s already so fucking whipped. But it's also because he knows that Connor wouldn’t just randomly hurt him. Probably.

(No, he _knows_ he wouldn’t.)

It's super weird to _feel_ Connor’s presence moving inside of his head, but that’s the best analogy he can come up with for what’s going on. He can feel Connor’s influence spreading around him like a sprawl of shadows that spiral across the ground, reaching out in every direction. It surrounds him, but unlike the other times (especially during sex) where Connor would more or less overwhelm him this time Hank can feel the distinct separation between himself and Connor, giving him the space to keep his own head. 

Despite that, there’s still a definite urge for him to want to lean into Connor’s influence but Hank holds tough and keeps himself steady, steeling his focus as Connor starts to speak. _First of all, you have to give the hunger a shape, a form that you can recognize. It is, after all, impossible to give direction to something your mind assumes as abstract._

The next thing that happens is far harder for Hank to describe. There’s a distinct sense of vertigo, and even his stomach feels like it drops in response to the feeling even though Hank knows he’s just standing here in front of Connor holding his hand. But he’s plummeting, falling into something expensive and heavy, and the next thing he knows is that his senses have sent him into an ocean in his own mind. He feels it around him, wide and endless, and it's a hell of a thing to experience. Good thing he doesn't need to breathe. 

_Shit…_ he can’t help but think, feeling a little bit off-kilter from the experience. He can still feel Connor close by, but there’s also more than just Connor and him now; they are in the ocean, after all, and the ocean is never empty. There is—there is a shark, he thinks, a shark that is also _him_ , and it patrols the waters, hunting for a flash of scales that signal his next meal.

 _You are both hunter and hunted at the same time,_ comes Connor’s voice, and having that is a bit of relief just because Hank can now feel not as lost with this whole… thing. _Now, you have to focus to keep the two separated. The further they are, the less you will feel the hunger._

As Connor says that, Hank can feel it now—a frenzy of thoughts that scatter like a school of fish. It’s definitely more than a little strange, but he can deal with this. Hopefully, anyway. _So, uh, am I the shark and the fish here, or…?_ The whole idea still feels a bit abstract to him, but he does know a thing or two about addiction. Which, thinking about it again, is probably the worst metaphor to choose here because he’s never been good at resisting temptation. 

He feels more than hears Connor’s responding hum. _Yes,_ he replies, _The shark is your hunger; the fish, it's will. Keep them apart and the hunger will be yours to control, for a time. But the longer they are apart the harder it will be to temper it back down._

Hank gives himself a moment to take in all of that. Okay, he can see this whole concept better now. The explanation makes sense in a way; if he can better identify his feeling of hunger and what it needs, then he can control it. But at the same time he has to know its strength, too. Much as a good part of him finds drinking blood to be disgusting, he’s gotta do it. He knows that. Doesn’t make it any easier, though.

With a blink Hank finds himself back to reality, the ocean gone for now as the familiar night sky and moonlit greenery greet his senses once again. _Sounds like the kinda thing I’ll just hafta get used to._ It’s going to take a while, but this is only the first day of the month that they have to train for Presentation. There’s still time to work on this, among other stuff. _But that’s how it works for you, then?_

Another hum from Connor. _Yes, although it does not work in such a simple manner—this is merely to show you the basic concept. What everyone does is unique to them, as it is based on their own experiences. With enough time you can learn how to fine tune and use to the hunger to suit your own needs._

Huh. Sounds like something that could be pretty useful. _Gotcha. Guess I’ll just have to… not eat? To try? That it?_ Hank feels like it might be a bit too soon for that, but hell if he knows.

Connor doesn’t show an indication either way as well. _It will be easier to attempt if you can actually feel the hunger more succinctly, yes._

Right. Hank shrugs, feeling a bit more used to this whole ‘ocean in his head’ thing now. It’ll still take time for him to really get used to it, but hey, that’s what the month’s for. _So, uh, do we just wait, or…?_

There’s a brief flicker of amusement from Connor’s end at the question. _We can focus on other aspects of the hunger while we wait. There are other ways in where in can be used—the hunger is an intrinsic part of us and all vampires are able to make use of it, regardless of the tiers of power that each of us holds._

Hank frowns. Okay, he’s going to need a bit of clarification on that one. _What, like you guys can go feral on command or something?_

 _No, nothing like that._ Connor says with a small shake of his head, then pauses for a second here, presumably to find the right words to proceed with his explanation. _The hunger is how vampires sense each other. Our hearts do not beat like humans do, after all, and we lack a pulse as well, so we find each other by sensing another’s hunger. The stronger your hunger, the easier it is for our own kind to spot you. You can use this to your advantage._

 _Okay…_ Hank still doesn’t _entirely_ get what Connor is saying here, but he figures nothing works better for him than a hands-on experience. He mentally runs through what Connor’s told him so far and attempts to emulate what Connor had shown him earlier, except now he tries to put that in Connor’s direction. _You can feel that?_

Connor blinks at the question, and Hank is sure he’s going to speak, but before he can hear what Connor’s about to say _something_ comes to him without any kind of warning. That sense of vertigo from before is back again, and he’s back in that ocean. But it's not the same water as before; for one he can actually see the bottom when he looks down, as if the very ground itself has been raised up to make the depths shallower.

It’s a very strange feeling. Hank doesn’t linger long in here, managing to pull himself out of there quickly enough. At least it seems like coming out of it is a lot easier than making it happen.

As Hank takes a moment to recover Connor voice speaks in his head again, and he lets himself soak in the relief that it brings to his current state of weariness. _As I was saying, we are unable to tell when another senses our hunger. That’s why it's useful to learn how to keep it tempered—if others cannot sense you, then they will not be able to find you._

Connor may say that but Hank is pretty certain that he’s well aware of what Hank just did. Nice of him to not call him out for that, he supposes. Though, god, that sensation… it was like standing at the very edge of a cliff and peering over it to see nothing but a bottomless pit. A weird as hell feeling to have, but that’s the best way he can put it. Honestly, a lot of this is all abstract concepts and metaphors and he’s never been good with fancy shit like that.

Still, he supposes it sorta makes sense, in some vampire way. Maybe he'll get used to it. Hank looks to Connor once he’s recovered and asks, _So if I was hungry and I didn’t keep that shit down, everybody around me would know I’m a desperate loser?_

It only takes a moment for Connor to answer. _They would be able to sense your hunger, yes._

Hank grimances at the reply. _Shit._ Yeah, it’s one thing to be hungry for this shit, but another thing entirely if all the other vampires around him is going to know about it too. Fuck, why can’t anything be simple with goddamn vampires? 

Connor tilts his head and blinks at Hank once more before speaking again. _There is nothing to be ashamed of, Hank. The hunger is something all of us have to learn to bear. It is as necessary to us as any human who requires air, or food, or water to survive._

He knows those words are meant to help, but the truth is that it doesn’t exactly make Hank feel any better. _Yeah, I mean, sure, but… it has to be some kind of status thing, right?_

 _A little, I suppose,_ Connor concedes after the briefest of pauses, _but it is hardly relevant right now. You are only three nights old and there is still lots of time for you to learn._

As he speaks Hank can feel the way Connor’s influence edges closer to him, providing an unspoken comfort that is all too tempting to sink into. _You walk before you run, I believe is how the human saying goes. The same thing applies here._

At least the words are nicer this time, and the comfort that Connor is wordlessly providing is very nice. But no matter how nice it is this whole shit has to be his own thing if he wants to learn how to do it. So like it or not, he’ll have to try and figure this out for himself.

Speaking of ‘himself’... there’s certainly one thing that has been bothering Hank for a while since the meeting. Considering the subject matter Hank forces himself to take a moment and breathe even if he doesn't strictly need to do that, but the motions are comforting and comfort is very much what he needs before he asks the next question. “Right, so—exactly what kind of thing is normally supposed to happen when somebody gets turned? Because I’ve heard the stories and your Council seemed pretty fucking pissed that you haven’t been following the rules.” Hank has more of an inkling of an idea, but he wants to hear the full answer straight out of Connor’s mouth. 

Connor doesn’t react visibly to the question, and for a moment Hank wonders if Connor’s actually tuned him out or something. Before he can do anything to get Connor’s attention, however, Connor himself does move—even if it's just a shift of the grip he has on Hank’s hand. Now he has Hank’s wrist in his grasp instead, and a thumb strokes over the inside of it as he answers the question. 

_They would have been trained to act in the same manner as the other fledglings you have seen with the Council,_ Connor says, and just those words alone are enough to start a chill down his spine. _Silent. Obedient. A trophy to be put on display. Ultimately, they are nothing more but a puppet to parrot their sire’s words._

Yeah, that… that was pretty much the answer he had been expecting. The memory of all those other fledglings—of all the other Firsts—come back to him again, with their blank stares and empty gazes. The thought that he could have been one of them causes a leaden weight to drop down in his stomach. It’s too horrifying a reality to imagine himself like that, and the fact that it's so highly possible only makes it worse. If it wasn’t for Connor’s touch on his wrist Hank thinks he might have thrown up at the thought of it all.

Hank swallows down the lump that’s suddenly formed in his throat, forcing himself to continue. “Even their First? Isn’t that supposed to be something special?”

A wry smile appears on Connor’s face. _They are,_ he replies, _That is why it is doubly important to train them._

There’s no way to stop the look of disgust that crosses Hank’s face at that answer. Training, they said—more like fucking _brainwashing_ , from the sounds of it. To think that is what they meant all those time when that question was asked… Jesus fucking Christ. The revulsion that Hank feels at that moment is so off the charts that even he can’t bottle it up. He would have killed himself the first chance he got for sure if he knew that was the kind of fate that awaited him.

Connor’s touch is the only reason why he hasn’t recoiled away entirely. Hank stays where he is even though he feels physically ill, listening to Connor as he speaks again. _The First is a representation of their sire, as I have explained before. But in the years, the meaning of that has changed. Now they are no longer the champions of their sire, but rather their most prized doll to be put on display._ He tightens his grip around Hank’s wrist then, and there’s more than a hint of possessiveness in his voice as he finishes with, _They are nothing like you._

Hank watches as Connor’s gaze shifts over to his neck, and he knows without words that Connor is looking at the scars that mark his neck. The blatant possessiveness that Connor shows him easily brings out a shiver from Hank, but unlike before where Hank would fully shun Connor’s behaviour a part of him now thinks that maybe, it might not be _too_ bad, if only because Connor seems to value him for his _eclectic_ personality. At the very least he still can be _himself_ instead of a mindless, empty puppet, which is far worse of a fate.

The way Connor talks about the whole thing with a fair amount of contempt feels like something of a relief, too. It’s clear enough that Connor dislikes it for different reasons, but he’ll take what he can get, as long as it means they can agree on the same conclusion. 

“So,” Hank begins after a good moment’s pause, “basically all they want are puppets they can fuck.” He lets out a snort at this point. Fucking typical. Give a guy power and the first thing they want to do is have sex with it. “Geez, how are they still in charge? A bunch of individualized vamps could probably take out a whole army of mindless zombies. Ain’t these guys seen any decent horror flicks?”

Connor hums in return. “Human media tends to get a lot of aspects about us wrong, as far as I can tell.” There’s a soft hint of amusement in here, but mostly it feels like Connor is… distracted. Which is unexpected, but it's not like Hank knows what the hell goes on in Connor’s head. As frustrating as that is. “But each member of the Council is, at the very least, half a millenia old; humans, in general, tend to not catch their attention unless it is somebody they intend to turn.” 

“Basically they’re too important for somebody like me.” Which, then, considering the fact that Connor is not even two hundred apparently, gives more sense to their attitude. Not that it makes it any better, and he certainly can’t say he enjoys it either. They’re still a bunch of fucking assholes for treating Connor the way they did in the meeting.

Connor makes a quiet, amused sound. “For now, perhaps,” he returns, his grip on Hank’s wrist slackening. His thumb is still stroking at the skin though, and the comfort it brings is a balm after the rollercoaster of emotions that went through him earlier. Hank tries not to think too hard about it as he soaks it in. “But they’ll know otherwise after your Presentation. I will make sure of that.”

And in that moment Hank thinks that maybe, just maybe—he can start to believe in that.

* * *

The first session goes over relatively well, and for the next couple of sessions in the following days, Connor focuses on teaching Hank the full ins and outs of this whole hunger thing. The way Connor talks about it really makes it seem like he believes it to be some kind of spirit animal crap or something, but Hank isn’t going to harp on those details. As long as it helps him to understand, that’s all that he needs. 

As much as Hank appreciates how thorough that Connor is being, he’s pretty sure that there’s more to this than that—he’s seen the amount of crazy shit that vampires have been able to do in his time hunting them. Even if Connor still manages to outdo them all in every possible way. Hank’s well aware by this point of how strong Connor is, but the more he gets to see and sense it for himself, the more he’s convinced that he never really stood a chance against a monster like him. One way or another, it seems like he was fated to die that night.

It’s hard to really say how he feels about it.

“You have made commendable progress since we have started.” Connor’s voice draws Hank out from his thoughts, and he blinks back in return to the way Connor looks over to him. “We can return to this at a later time to further hone those skills, but it would be best if we moved onto something else.”

“Fuckin’ finally.” Not that he doesn’t understand the need to be thorough, but they _are_ also working with a time limit here, technically, and Hank would rather arm himself with as much knowledge as possible to tackle whatever this whole Presentation is going to throw at him. “What’s next, teach?”

Connor hums softly. “You already seem to wield telepathy with a fair amount of ease, so I do not think I will need to instruct you on that.”

Hank nods, tilting his head. _Right, that one’s useful._ It’s pretty damn handy. It’s like having comms without any of the bulk and limitations. It’s one of the things he can some to appreciate more than the rest of his abilities.

Connor gives a returning nod and hums again, before saying, “I suppose we could expand on that and work on telekinesis then, if you want.”

Hank is about to nod again when it fully sinks into him what Connor has just said. “Wait, wait. Telekinesis? Is that different from that thing you do where you make stuff appear and disappear?” Telekinesis, after all, is by definition an ability to manipulate things with the mind—and Connor’s shadows, or whatever they are supposed to be, are probably considered a ‘thing’ at the very least. If that is the case, then he has _some_ idea of what Connor’s powers there are supposed to be.

The question draws out a blink from Connor. “You mean my shadows,” he states with a slow tilt of his own head. Hank nods fully this time to signify that it is what he means, and Connor continues. “They are a part of me, though in a different way from you.”

He raises a hand at those words, and not a moment after Hank sees a tiny tendril of shadow emerging from the sleeve of Connor’s coat. He watches in morbid fascination as it slithers up Connor’s hand and wraps itself around his index finger like shadowy snake. “The closest term I can use is ‘familiar’, though no other vampire I know of has something like this. But they live with me, and they do what I desire.”

Yeah, no vampire Hank’s met has that. A ‘familiar’? It’s definitely creepy to be sort of clumped together with what is apparently a separate entity that just does Connor’s bidding. Sounds familiar, huh? It might be different from him, but like hell Hank wants to just become a shadow in Connor’s existence. Christ.

He looks closer at the shadowy tendril that’s curled itself around Connor’s finger; in the darkness of the night Hank can see something of a red faint glow that outlines its form, and from that glow Hank feels something unspeakably deep, dark and primal. Pure power, in its rawest form; untempered strength that is clearly under Connor’s control. Knowing that brings a chill down his spine—one of many that he’s experienced since starting this whole training thing. The more he knows about Connor, the more he’s convinced that Connor is less of a vampire and more of an abomination of nature itself. How else can Hank explain the myriad of stuff that Connor’s able to do? 

It takes a good moment for Hank to find his voice. “You said everything you could do, I could as well, eventually. Did you… do you mean _that_ too?” He doesn’t really know what to feel about that possibility. To do something so unnatural, so entirely inhuman… sure, he knows he’s not human anymore but going to that extent feels way too much for him. If he goes there… Hank can’t help but feel like he’ll lose that spark of humanity that’s still inside of him. That part of him that still makes him _him_. He can’t lose that. It’s all he has left.

Connor seems to consider Hank’s question with a fair amount of thought. He hums while dwelling on it, and Hank watches the way Connor’s thumb idly strokes the very tip of the tendril as if he’s petting it. It’s… definitely a thing to observe, to put it mildly. Like watching a man pet a hellhound like it’s just a fluffy puppy. Hank would be lying if he said if he wasn’t a little bit uncomfortable by that display.

Luckily he’s spared from looking at it for too long as Connor eventually comes to answer the question. “The possibility is there, though I cannot say for certain. The strength of a fledgling is dependant on how much blood their sire turns them with, and in turn how much they stand to inherit.”

Hank feels his stomach dropping—something that’s been happening a lot, he thinks—as the implications of Connor’s response sinks into him. He hasn’t said, has he? “How much blood _did_ you turn me with?” There’s no way he could obviously know what with him busy _dying_ at that point, and as much as he doesn’t want to assume there’s just something in Connor’s words that makes him want to prepare for the worst.

Connor’s thumb pauses in it's movements as soon as Hank asks that question, head shifting to tilt in the other direction to consider Hank with a quiet gaze. Hank stares back warily, bracing himself for his answer, but nothing can really prepare him from the mild way in where Connor simply says, “As much as I could give.”

Those words cause Hank to physically take a step back, unable to stop the mutter of “Jesus Christ” that slips out from him. Hank can feel a lump growing in his throat as the dread in his stomach intensifies, and his head whirls with this revelation. He understands Connor enough at this point to translate that answer into its proper meaning. A lot. Connor’s must have given him a hell lot of his own blood, probably more than he should have if Hank had to guess. Christ, no wonder the stupid Council had been so worried. Even _Hank_ himself is worried just from thinking about the mere implications of what Connor’s done. If Connor’s a monster, then Hank’s going to be one too.

Forcing a breath into himself, Hank slowly set his gaze onto Connor, hoping his voice comes out as steady as he hopes it to be. “Does the Council know about this? Does _anyone_?” Hank doesn’t want to consider the full ramifications of what will happen if people do know—hell, he can’t even begin to imagine it. All of it feels so… overwhelming. 

Connor clearly doesn’t have the same worries that Hank harbours, judging by the way he frowns. If anything, it almost seems like the question’s struck a nerve with him. With a wave of his hand Connor dismisses the tendril of shadow that had been wrapped around it, and it dissipates in the darkness before Hank’s eyes like a tattered piece of cloth, dissolving into nothing. “I—” he begins to say, only to pause, and after another moment he turns to glare at the space next to him instead. When he speaks again both his voice and words are tight. “I see no reason to inform them. What I do—what I did—is my choice and mine alone.”

The dread in Hank’s stomach lessens upon hearing that response. If this stays between them then there’s less chance of it coming back to bite him in the ass. In a weird way, having this big a secret with Connor is kind of a relief. “...good. That’s—that’s probably a good thing?” He’s probably the last person here who knows what’s a good thing and what isn’t a good thing at this point, but he’s scrambling for any kind of reassurance.

Hank turns away as well, running a hand through his hair as he mutters a few choice curses under his breath. Jesus, Connor really doesn’t think about the consequences when he decides to do any kind of shit, does he. Sometimes Hank can’t tell if he’s actually dealing with a hundred year old vampire or an actual fucking kid from the way Connor does things. He really doesn’t give a fuck about anything at all.

Sighing, Hank shakes his head and looks back to Connor who is still looking away. No point dwelling on what’s already been done, Hank supposes. All he can do is to focus on the future, and _not_ think about the inevitability of becoming a fucking abomination. “Alright, so—telekinesis? This another thing only you can do?”

Connor returns his gaze to Hank at the question, blinking once in apparent surprise before it disappears entirely in place of a small smile as he answers the question. “No, others are able to do it too—although the effects of it can vary depending on the strength of the user.” At this point Connor bends down and picks up a pebble from the ground and tosses it up into air. Hank watches as it lobs up and proceeds to simply stay up there, hovering in the air due to Connor’s power.

“Ekons tend to be the true masters of this skill.” Hank lowers his gaze back down when Connor speaks again, frowning at the usage of an unfamiliar word. Ekons? That, he hasn’t heard before. Hank tries to ask about that, but Connor keeps going, giving him no chance to cut in. “Midians have a bit less… finesse, in this regard. Still, it is a useful skill to learn.” With a jerk of his head Connor sends the floating pebble over to Hank’s direction, who catches it in his hands the moment it drops. He turns the pebble over in his hands, feeling the weight of it. As far as he can tell it's an ordinary pebble, which really shouldn’t be that much of a surprise, but one can never be too sure. 

Before Hank proceeds he makes use of this window to ask his question. “Okay, back up. What the hell are Ekons?”

Connor blinks again at the question, seemingly surprised once more, but answers nonetheless. “You can call them the lesser cousins of Midians,” he explains. “They’re the ones who are much closer to the image of the traditional vampire that humans know of.” He takes a moment here to gesture at the ground with his hand, and another pebble zooms right into his grasp. Connor shifts it to rest at the back of his hand where it begins to roll idly across his knuckles like some sort of party trick. “The vampires you hunted as a human—the ones who aren’t Skals—are Ekons. Midians have never been plentiful, and the numbers have shrunk down further since the turn of the nineteenth century.”

Hank takes in that whole explanation with a slow nod. “So… you really are some kind of… extra special pureblood, huh.” That’s what he’s getting from everything that Connor’s said and done so far. It’s obvious that Connor isn’t just an ordinary vampire, and the last few days have cemented that fact even further. The stuff that Connor can do, and the power that he keeps wielding so casually—it's beyond anything he’s ever encountered in his whole life, and that’s saying something considering how long he had been in the monster hunting business. 

He glances down to his own hands, rolling his own pebble between his fingers. Of course, he’s well aware that there are Strong Vampires and Weak Vampires from his years spent hunting them, but he had never really bothered to fully learn the specifics in terms of what all their differences are. He simply knew that there were some you could kill and some you should run the hell away from, like Midians. Like Connor. Whatever the hell he is.

Hank looks back up. “Do I count as one of those, since I’m your First?”

“I am who I want to be.” The response is almost immediate—so immediate, even, that Hank has to blink at how fast it comes. Connor himself is undeterred by Hank’s surprise, lifting his shoulder in a careless shrug as he continues. “The trappings of man have no sway on me. You share my blood, and so you are my progeny.” He tosses his pebble up into the air where it begins to spin, but Hank can’t bring himself to pay attention to that when his gaze is locked onto the intense look that Connor sends his way as he finishes speaking. “There has never been a need to question what you are.”

That look is certainly A Thing, but it's far from effective in convincing Hank to drop the subject. God, that answer had to be the most cryptic bullshit that he’s ever heard. ‘Don’t question it’ is just _asking_ for him to do the exact opposite. If Connor doesn’t want to give him a straight answer now than Hank will just find another opportunity to ask again later. 

Prick.

Hank bites down a sigh and tears his gaze away from Connor to look back at the pebble in his hands. “So, how’s the telekinesis work? Do I just kinda…” He trails off to toss the pebble into the air and attempts to _think_ at it. If he could manage to figure out how to talk to Connor with his head, then this probably shouldn’t be that much of a step up.

Connor’s response seems to tell him as much. “Imagine that you’re reaching out to hold it yourself, but do it without actually moving your physical form.” 

Right, he can do that. Hank focuses his thoughts onto the pebble, willing for it to _stop_. The pebble gives a few jitters in the air, but eventually it does come to a stop in mid air. The accomplishment makes Hank smile as he shakily starts to move it over to his other hand. It’s… not too bad at all, if he’s going to be honest about it. Kinda like all the fancy shit that goes on in _The Matrix_ , except he knows that this is real.

He keeps it up for a while, moving the pebble from one hand to another, his movements getting steadier as he eases into the act. “This ain’t so bad.” Compared to the whole hunger stuff this is a lot easier to grasp in comparison. Though admittedly, it's not as if the concept of telekinesis is new to him, so the learning curve between those two things is vastly different. Doesn’t stop the way he feels just a little bit proud for being able to do it, though.

At the back of his mind he feels that same pride from Connor as well, who is apparently just as pleased at seeing him succeed. Hank steadfastly ignores how that makes him feel in return because that’s a whole thing he doesn’t need right now. He puts all of that aside and keeps his focus on his pebble. Perhaps even too much focus, because he just barely manages to hear Connor going “Now, catch” to him before Hank senses something coming straight for his face. Thankfully his long time as a hunter (or maybe it's just his vampire powers) has given him quick reflexes to react, and Hank draws his hand up to catch the pebble that Connor’s thrown right at him. 

With his concentration broken Hank’s own pebble falls back to the ground, though that’s the last thing that Hank bothers to notice. What bothers him right now is the fact that Connor threw a fucking pebble at him with possibly enough force to injure him badly enough if he didn’t catch it in time. Even now he can feel the throbbing of his palm from the strength in which the pebble had slammed onto his hand. At least it's not bad enough to leave any kind of bruise, though he wouldn’t have said the same thing if it had collided with his face. 

He sends a scowl at Connor’s direction. “The fuck d’you think you’re doing?” he asks—demands, really, because shit like this is _not_ something he’s going to take lightly. He could’ve poked an eye out, for Christ’s sake. 

Rather than looking concerned the smile that’s already present on Connor’s face only widens ever so slightly. “I wouldn’t have hurt you,” he says, and Hank has to suppress the urge to scoff. Yeah, right. “But it's good to see that your instincts are up to speed.”

That’s maybe a little nice to hear, but Hank reminds himself that he isn’t here to get compliments from Connor. He lets out a huff and bounces the pebble between his hands. “I mean, you’d have to be pretty sick to kill a guy with a rock this small,” he mutters while keeping an eye on the pebble to see exactly how high it’s going up.

“You’d be surprised with what you can accomplish.” Even as faint as he can hear it Connor sounds far too amused for Hank’s taste, and the fact that he feels it increasing along with what he says next isn’t something that Hank is exactly interested to know. “Eyeballs, for instance, are particularly delicate.”

 _That,_ Hank has to bring his gaze back down so that he can send a Look to Connor just for that particular comment. “Like I said—you’d have to be pretty _sick_.” He’s sure Connor has his ways and means but like hell he’s going to just sit to the side and watch Connor go out to perform what is probably sadistic murder just from the tone and words of what he’s just spoken.

Connor simply hums briefly in return, clearly unbothered by the comment. Not that Hank’s surprised—Connor very definitely relishes in the fact that he isn’t human, more so than most. Hank would be more pissed about it if he wasn’t also grateful for it, in a way; it's only because of Connor’s general weirdness that Hank knows he’s still even here in the first place. He might not be the biggest fan of it, but he can at least take a moment to be thankful.

“You’re performing better than I expected,” Connor remarks after a few seconds of silence, to which Hank can’t help but snort at. Typical vampire behaviour, underestimating humans. They really are the world’s most arrogant pricks—with Connor himself being the worst of the lot.

Hank toys with the pebble in his hands for a few seconds more before he makes a move to toss it back up in the air—this time with an added boost of telekinesis to make it go as high as he can make it. He watches the pebble as it's lobbed high into the air, high enough that it vanishes from his sight. Yeah, that’s going to take a bit. Enough time to talk a bit more, at least. 

“Believe it or not, I didn’t get this far with just dumb luck.” Hank looks down to Connor once more as he says that, trying and failing to hide the way he bristles at Connor’s backhandedness. “I know how to fight—even if it ain’t on the level of you Midians or whatever.” He didn’t just manage to live out half his mortal life as a hunter for nothing. Vampires have just always been a class of their own, and Connor is beyond even that. Just because Connor so vastly outclasses him doesn’t make him _weak_.

The way Connor chuckles does little to temper the annoyance that Hank feels. “Apologies,” he says, and at least Connor does start to sound somewhat more apologetic—or placating—here. “I did not mean to belittle you. It is not everyday when a human could have even stood up to a Midian despite knowing it would be their death.” 

In an instant he feels heat rising to his cheeks and a surge of warmth in his chest upon hearing those words. It’s so sudden and unexpected that Hank has to turn away, jaw clenched as he struggles to fight down the way his body and instincts react to hearing what he knows is praise from Connor. Stupid fucking fledgling instincts. This is his _killer_ , for god’s sake. He may have ‘put up a good fight’ in Connor’s words but that doesn’t change the fact that he _killed_ him. Not even a full week yet and already Hank wants to forgive him. Fuck being a fledgling.

Luckily, he’s saved from dwelling on it any longer by the return of the pebble that he’s tossed up. Hank turns his gaze back up and catches it before it can clock him in the head. He keeps it afloat for a moment before sending it flying at Connor, whirling towards him at the same rapid speed that Connor had thrown at him earlier. “Catch.”

Connor, overpowered bastard that he is, has the pebble come to a standstill even before it can get anywhere near him, and smiles before lobbing it backwards to let one of his shadows catch it with inhuman precision. 

“You’re getting the hang of it,” is all that he says before throwing the pebble back at Hank, who catches it in his hand with a roll of his eyes. This is why he can’t find it in himself to _like_ Connor in any way despite his instincts clearly wanting him to. How could he like somebody who’s so utterly inhuman? And that’s not even taking into account the whole bit where Connor is, once again, his murderer. That’s not just something he can get over after a couple of days.

He rolls the pebble between his fingers. Not for the first time he feels the temptation to try and kill Connor, to use these powers to go up against him, but he knows better than that. Even with these powers he knows that his body will very likely betray him and those instincts would never let him hurt a single hair on Connor’s head. And if he did somehow muster up the power to break through that particular barrier, there is no doubt that Connor would destroy him all too easily. Through his blood Connor knows every one of Hank’s secrets and every tool in his arsenal—he could totally wreck him from the inside out. The thought of that is enough to make him shudder, and not in a pleasant way.

Right now all Hank can do is to go along with this and hopefully find some other way to get out of this. There has to be _something_ he can do, surely. Hopefully. He just has to play it cool. “What can I say? I learn quick.”

“You do.” Connor smiles at him once more when he says that, and again Hank attempts to ignore how the sight of that sparks another surge of warmth deep in his chest. It doesn’t mean anything. It will never mean anything. He may not hate Connor as much any more, but it's still a far cry from forgiveness. Not that he ever intends to forgive him. He can’t. Not now, not ever.

He needs to remember that, no matter what.

* * *

More days pass after that session. Connor takes Hank through all the aspects of telekinesis, though he makes him focus on the basics—no point doing anything more advanced until he has the basics down pat. Hank can agree with that at the very least, especially since this feels like something he’s more likely to grasp.

He’s going through the usual motions with another pebble when Connor pops out the sudden question at him. “We could work on opening your third eye, if you’re interested.”

Christ, talk about unexpected. Hank does a double take at that, nearly dropping the pebble from where he had been hovering it above his head. “My what?” he asks, not sure if he’s heard that right. A third eye? Really? He’s heard of the concept before, of course. He’s managed to hunt monsters for as long as he has because he could trust his gut and had a good sense of things before all of _this_. Still, he wouldn’t have gone so far as to call what he had a ‘third eye’.

Connor tilts his head to the side, studying Hank’s reaction with a curious gaze while he responds. “Your third eye—not a literal eye by any means, but simply an extension of the senses you already possess. Human senses are, after all, quite limiting.”

He knows that Connor doesn’t mean for those words to be an insult, but Hank can’t help but feel somewhat slighted anyway. He’s prickly like that. “Guess that’s why you’re all so hard to kill. Didn’t know vampires had that shit.” Hank just barely manages to not sound as bitter as he feels inside. It’s incredibly hard to not feel that way—things like these really hammer home to him just how nigh impossible vampires are to kill. He knows he’s lucky to have survived for as long as he did when he fought Connor, but the thought of others not making it as far is just… it feels way too fucking unfair. Humans don’t deserve this kind of shit on them.

If Connor did hear his thoughts, he does not show it; all he simply does is to give another one of his careless shrugs. “It is not surprising. Humans tend to mix what our third eye can do with the instincts that our hunger grants onto us.”

Hank lets out a heavy sigh. The more he knows about vampires, the more terrifying they become to him. Not that he can do anything about it though, so there’s no reason for him to continue dwelling on this. 

Third eye. Christ. He runs a hand through his hair and looks at Connor. “Alright. So how do I do this thing?”

Connor doesn’t answer the question. He simply relaxes his posture and stares at Hank, studying him once more with a scrutiny that makes Hank feel like he’s being observed under a microscope. There’s a feeling in his gut now that tells him to be ready, to be _prepared_ —

Hank tries to ready himself for whatever it is that Connor might do, but any effort that he puts in is quickly made futile. Connor _moves_ , taking a single step forward before he vanishes from Hank’s sight, only to reappear right in front of him at the next moment. Before Hank can even react to the shift Connor’s eyes flare once, and Hank can feel the burst of power that overwhelms him, so strong and potent that it pins him in place.

It’s certainly one hell of a thing to do. Hank snarls as he attempts to move any part of himself, but Connor’s power is unyielding. Christ, at this rate they really are going to need a proper in-depth discussion about consent, because otherwise Connor will just keep doing this because he is his sire and so it is his right—

—fuck. Hank shuts down those thoughts before they can go on any further and simply sends a furious glare at Connor, who once again gives little regard to Hank’s anger. He reaches up and cup’s Hank’s jaw with one hand, fingers cool against his cheek as Connor lifts up his face and leans in. Hank feels his instincts clamoring for him to do the same, to bring their lips in closer proximity to each other, but he holds steady and so does Connor.

“Remember that you are not human,” Connor says, the smile on his face more cold than kind. “Do not trust what your human senses tell you. That is how you learn to see.”

With those last cryptic words Connor’s eyes flare again, and suddenly Hank finds himself stumbling forward, the power that had been holding him in place abruptly gone. Or maybe not because he knows that Connor’s cast some kind of illusion because he’s no longer standing on a field in the middle of the night but rather at an intersection crammed with people. A crowd. 

He’s always hated crowds. Give Hank a choice and he’d rather take being out in the woods or in the dark any day; there’s nothing for him to fear there, not when he knows what lurks within. More than that, he’s _killed_ the monsters that come from the dark. At least that is familiar. But to be surrounded by strangers, where any of them could be a monster in disguise? That’s far worse. 

Hank grits his teeth and looks around him. He’s surrounded on all sides by people from all walks of life: adults and kids and the elderly. Sure, he can easily shove his way through them, but there’s no telling what could happen. This is some kind of test, after all. Any of them could knife him in a moment if he didn’t keep his guard up—and in a crowd like this there’s no way he can keep his guard up for everyone that passes by him.

As if that isn’t enough, there are also the voices. The sounds of cries and sobs ring in his ears, all of them all too familiar. Familiar enough for Hank to know that none of them are real, because he knows that both his wife and son died without leaving a ghost behind. 

“The fuck is this?” he growls, knowing that Connor has to be able to hear it, considering that he’s the one who cast this illusion. He knows that Connor wants him to use his third eye to break out of this thing, but just shoving him off into the deep end like this without any warning isn’t exactly helpful. Christ, this is why he hates vampires so fucking much.

The crowd continues to move around him, a wave of bodies that keep him trapped where he is, but from a distance he starts to see a person attempting to elbow their way over to him. Hank wonders for a moment who it might be, but then he hears a new voice cutting through the cacophony going on in his head, and it's surprising enough that it silences all the other voices. “Hank!”

“What the—” he starts, but his thoughts are interrupted once he notices Connor’s appearance.

Hank can only stare as he attempts to make sense of it. Physically this Connor _looks_ the same but there’s something softer in his expression, far less of the casual callousness that Connor usually carries around with him, and in its place is an eagerness that is more suited to the youthful face that he has on as he perks up to look at Hank and smiles. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

The staring doesn’t quite stop. Hank can’t really recognize this Connor at all; he looks too… innocent. Too _human_. Was this a memory of Connor before he became what he is now? That’s pretty much the best guess that Hank can come up with.

Doesn’t really matter though, he supposes, considering the fact that he is aware that this is an illusion. He just needs to pass whatever cooked up test that Connor’s made up for him. “I’m guessing this is some kinda test? You need me to sense somebody coming for me, or what?”

Connor tilts his head in response, a small frown appearing onto his face as he looks back at Hank in what seems to be genuine confusion. “A test? I wasn’t aware you were doing a test. Not that this is the best place to do it.” He reaches out and takes Hank’s hand, warm fingers lacing with his own. Connor gives his hand a squeeze and smiles once again. “You don’t like crowds, right? Let’s get out of here then before it gets even worse.”

He tugs at Hank’s hand but Hank remains where he is, unwilling to move. Everything about Connor feels so real—too real, even. It doesn’t sit right with him. It might be a third eye thing or the old gut instinct that’s giving him a warning, but he knows that something is just wrong here. “Don’t play dumb with me. What the hell are you playing at?”

“I’m not playing at anything, Hank.” It should be fucking illegal how… _cute_ Connor can look when he’s pouting, what with the way those big brown eyes stare at him. “If you don’t want to go then I’ll just have to go by myself and you’ll be sorry that you missed it.”

Hank resists the urge to rub his face. Jesus, the way Connor is looking at him right now… it's almost impossible to resist. Probably the only reason why he hasn’t caved into that look is because the Connor he knows is nothing like this. He’s a soulless bloodsucker with weird dark tendrils that are maybe sort of hot. Not that the cute look isn’t hot either.

Fuck, he doesn’t have time for this. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he asks, scowling. “I know this is—I’m supposed to not trust my human senses or something, but so far all you’ve really shown me if how to sniff vampires out if they’re hungry. You just threw me into the deep end here without explaining how any of this shit works.” Even a hint would be really useful here right now.

The confusion becomes more apparent than ever on Connor’s face, and Hank watches as he tilts his head from one side to the other, still clearly lost himself. “You’re the one who’s not making sense, Hank. What’s this talk about not being human?” He pauses and slowly arches up an eyebrow, totally ignorant to the way Hank feels that familiar pit of dread opening up in his stomach. “Were you watching too many horror movies last night again or something?”

Well, that pretty much answers his question, doesn’t it? Hank takes in a deep breath, steeling himself for what he has to do next. He doesn’t need a third eye to let him know that this thing is probably what he has to get through to make it out of here. Good to know his gut instinct is still going strong.

“Sorry, kid.” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the knife that he always keeps there, holding it up as he faces this doppelganger. He doesn’t really know if he has any of his powers here, but it doesn’t really matter when he’s armed and ready to take down this lookalike that stands before him. 

Connor (or rather, fake Connor) instantly jerks away once the weapon is brandished at his face, eyes wide and pleading as his gaze flicks between Hank’s face and the knife in his hand. “Hank,” he starts, voice soft and shaky, as if he’s actually _terrified_ when that’s probably the last thing that the real Connor would ever feel. “Wh-What are you doing?”

Staring at this Connor’s face while he has that expression definitely makes Hank want to waver, but he holds his ground. “I’m sure you can guess,” he returns, voice coming out far steadier than he had expected. “I don’t know what you’re supposed to be, but whatever this is, you’re not my Connor.” They may look the same but this Connor is nothing like his fuck-up of a sire. 

“Th—this is going a bit far for a joke now, isn’t it?” The pleading in fake Connor’s expression almost becomes too much to look at. “C’mon, let’s get out of here. You’re just stressed out, that’s all.”

Hank tightens the grip he has on his knife. “You know I’m not joking.” He’s never met this Connor before. All things considered, this Connor is far creepier than the one he already knows. For all the stuff that the real Connor does, at least he’s been direct and obvious about it. This copy, however… while Hank has no attachment to it, he also isn’t looking forward to killing it, either.

The way that fake Connor continues to look at him makes Hank waver even more. He knows that he’s always been soft, but not soft enough to not deal with a fake when he clearly knows what it is. Taking a chance Hank makes use of his newly-learned telekinetic powers to throw his knife with unerring precision. “I’ve had a dozen poltergeists pretend to be my son,” he says as he watches the knife fly straight and true towards his target.“Trust me, you’re not pulling this off.”

Fake Connor barely so much as jerks when the knife embeds itself into his forehead with a slick, wet sound. Rivulets of blood start to well up and trail down from the wound, and it drops off steadily at his chin. All the red on his face only serves to further highlight the betrayal that is present in the doppelganger’s eyes as he continues to stare at Hank.

“Hank…” he croaks out, weak and trembling and _hurt_. “Why…?”

Hank doesn’t have an answer, but even if he did he wouldn’t have the time to give it anyway. Fake Connor collapses onto his knees as soon as he finishes speaking, like a puppet that has its strings cut. His gaze remains transfixed onto Hank, who watches as they slowly grow glassy and glaze over entirely. He won’t lie, it hurts like hell to see Connor look like this, but the logic inside of him knows that this is just a ruse. If this ‘third eye’ thing is just some sort of strong intuition, then that works out fine for him. He can handle this.

He feels the silence pounding at his ears when he realizes that the crowd around him has fallen silent. Everything is quiet now—too quiet, even. It makes all his hairs stand on end as the expectation of something approaching starts to gnaw at him. Is Connor going to try and throw something new at him now? If that’s the case, then he’d better prepare.

Hank reaches out for his knife set in Connor’s head, ready take it out so as to ready himself for whatever comes next. But before he can get to the handle something tingles at the back of his neck and Hank whirls around, ready to go up against whatever's coming—

—only to find himself facing Connor, who has put his face inches away from Hank’s own. 

“ _Jesus!_ ” Yeah, like that isn’t _not_ going to surprise anyone. Hank attempts to backpedal with a yelp only to realize that he’s immobile again. Or maybe he’s never been mobile in the first place. Fucking asshole. He lets out a snarl at Connor’s face again, who simply regards him with a mild, passing interest, one eyebrow slowly rising upwards as the seconds tick by.

“Interesting,” is the only thing that Connor says before he closes the distance them, pressing his lips to Hank’s and claiming them in a forceful, bruising kiss. That’s certainly one way for Hank to know that this is the real Connor he’s dealing with—only he would be the kind of jerk who’d take without asking. 

His instincts urge for him to lean in, to take that kiss and return it like what Connor would want, but Hank squashes them down and fights against it—that is, until Connor’s tongue is probing into his mouth, slithering in the moment there’s an opening, and once Hank gets to taste that familiar metallic tang of his sire’s blood from the cut that been made on his tongue, all thoughts of resistance fly out of the window. All the instincts that he’s been suppressing rise up and wash over him at once, overwhelming him with the desire to _submit_. 

And submit he does. Hank goes pliant and lax all at once, moaning shamelessly into his sire’s mouth as he kisses back, sucking out the blood from the wound and swallowing it down greedily. There’s a voice in his head that’s screaming for him to stop and not be this fucking easy, but it's drowned out by the perfect taste of Connor’s blood on his lips, so good and amazing that it just makes Hank want to keep on kissing, to suck off every drop of blood that his sire gives to him so that he can always feel the pleasant hum of warmth that runs through his whole body.

Connor purrs against his lips when Hank deepens the kiss, granting him what he desires, making Hank moan again as he gets to have more of that warm, perfect blood that can only belong to his sire. He’s almost gone enough that he almost misses the almost ice-cold touch of something wispy against his stomach, far too thin and spindly to have been from Connor’s hands. It’s a bizarre enough sensation that Hank breaks off the kiss so that he can look down and see what it is, freezing when he sees tiny black tendrils of shadow that have crawled their way up his pants and slid underneath his shirt and jacket.

If feeling how weird it was wasn’t enough to shock the haze out of him, then the sight of it certainly is. “What the—” Hank begins, spluttering as he attempts to figure out what the fuck is going on. “What the hell is that?”

Connor frowns a little at the question. “It’s me, of course,” he replies, as if the answer couldn’t have been more obvious. “What else did you think it could be?”

Well, wasn’t that a question and a half. Hank definitely needs a moment here before he can even start to respond. “I… okay, that’s super weird.” Which is putting it lightly, if he has to be honest about it. “Can you feel with those? Am I—I mean, you’ve never used them like that before during sex so I…” He can’t help but feel like this is quickly escalating from makeouts to straight-up tentacle porn.

“I can feel them, yes.” The frown on Connor’s face is deeper now, and he does a small head tilt as he continues speaking. “But none of them are as strong when compared to feeling it on my actual body. Which is why I only use them when I have a need for it.”

There are a few things Hank can say to that explanation, but all of them vanish as Connor leans back in to kiss him once again. Between the solid hold of his sire’s shadows, the warm press of his lips and the perfect taste of his blood as Connor slips his tongue into his mouth again Hank all but melts, body sagging as he leans in closer, wanting more. He really should be pissed at himself for how easy he’s being, but it's just so hard to resist Connor when he’s a hot guy that’s inhuman down to the bone. Hell, he didn’t even so much as mention the fact that Hank had to kill a copy of him to get out of that illusion—

Christ, the illusion. The thought of it is enough to bring some sense back into Hank, and he manages to pull himself away from Connor again, giving him a look. “Wait. I just _killed_ some illusion of you, and you’re not even pissed?”

This time Connor lets out a sigh before answering. “Why should I be? You used your third eye and looked past the illusion, just as you should have.” 

“You’re not even a _little_ concerned?” If anything, Connor sounds like he's more annoyed than concerned. It’s easy enough to guess why he feels that way, which does no favors at all for Hank. Sure, he killed that other Connor because he _knew_ that it wasn’t the right Connor, but it still sucks a lot that he’s stuck with the Connor who didn’t even have the fucking courtesy to _ask_ before using those weird fucking tentacles of his to feel him up. Even if now they feel more warm than cold and every gentle touch reminds him of Connor’s own hands on his body... Hank stops his thoughts there before they can go any further. Fuck. He’s not into this. He can’t start being into this.

Hank forces himself to take in a deep breath first, and then speaks again. “Most people would wanna talk about that shit _before_ they start macking on each other.” If they even wanted to do it after something like that. Hank can’t imagine anybody else being as into it as Connor apparently is.

The confused look from before returns on Connor’s face. “I don’t see any reason as to what I should be concerned,” he says, tone still cool despite said confusion. “If anything, I like the fact that the first thing you thought about is me.”

Well, there’s no way that Hank can’t _not_ blush at something like that, even though it definitely wasn’t by choice that his mind made up to have Connor appear before him of all people. It’s got to be those fucking fledging instincts at work here once more. That’s the only reason he can think of.

“Just…” he trails off, pausing, distracted for a moment at the way Connor looks at him before he reminds himself of the very important thing that he wants to talk about here. He can’t keep giving in like this, damnit. “Cool your fucking jets, okay. Just because you get hot at seeing me kill you doesn’t mean I’m into that.” God, did he just say that? Never thought there’d be a day where he actually had to say something like that. Jesus fucking christ.

Connor simply blinks once at Hank, then says, “You’re aroused by me. Is that not good enough of a reason?”

The blush on Hank’s face intensifies. “ _Christ_ , Connor.” God, if he could do it Hank would have strangled him with his bare hands. How can he just say shit like this? Stupid Connor with his pretty face and his complete lack of human sensibilities. Seriously, there are just some things you don’t go around saying out loud. And it's not like Hank even _wants_ to be into Connor—it's more like he can’t help it. He should be pissed to hear crap like this instead of making him blush like some sort of fucking teenager who got caught staring at their crush.

Hank grits his teeth and resolutely ignores how warm his cheeks feel right now. “Even if that’s the case, it doesn’t mean you get an invitation to jump my guts twenty-four-seven.” Even if his body doesn’t seem to get the memo on that. Stupid fucking body and its inability to resist anything that Connor gives it. Hank knows that he has to draw the line now before things can proceed any further. If he doesn’t now, then he may never get another chance to do it.

Another blink from Connor. “I’m assuming this means you _don’t_ want to have sex, then,” he says, disappointment already start to show on his face, looking like a kid who’s just been deprived of his favourite toy. It shouldn’t affect him at all but it does, and Hank can feel an ugly weight settling into the pit of his stomach, the sensation coming off as if he’d just punched himself in the gut. Christ, he shouldn’t be feeling so fucking bad for establishing his boundaries. He knows that it's just his stupid instincts clouding his mind, but it's still a fight that he has to make in his own head before he can proceed.

“Look,” Hank starts, rubbing a hand at the side of his face. “I don’t hate you. I mean, I should. God knows, I _really_ fucking should. But I don’t.” He pauses to let out a sigh, taking a breath he knows he doesn’t need any more. Just one of the many things about being a vampire, like having somebody like Connor as his fucking sire. Try as he might Hank knows that he can’t _really_ say no to what Connor’s giving him—and a deep part of him doesn’t really want to, either. Especially not when the way Connor gives so much of his attention to him is… far better than anything else than he could have had even when human. Just thinking about it alone is… fuck. He needs set his head back on the point he’s trying to make.

Hank drops his hand with another sigh. “And I’m not gonna lie, the sex with you is great. Really great. And sure, I’d be up to it when the time comes, but… let’s actually work our way up to that like normal people, yeah? Like… let’s start with making out.” He licks his lips and tastes the lingering traces of Connor’s blood from earlier, making him shiver ever so slightly. “Just… yeah. Making out is… uh, you know, fine.” More than fine, really. Weaker men would have probably caved in, but Hank is nothing if not incredibly stubborn.

Connor is silent for a few moments after Hank is done with what he wants to say, and then slowly tilts his head to the side. “Is this an addition to the consent thing you talked about earlier this week?” he asks.

God, this really is like working with a killer manchild. Hank lets out a slow breath from his nose and nods. “Yes,” he responds, unable to hide the weariness in his voice. “This is in _addition_ to the consent thing.”

The pained face that Connor makes at his words tells everything that Hank needs to know what he feels. He sighs yet again and reaches around to wrap an arm around Connor’s waist, hoping that the gesture is enough to placate him (while also ignoring the fact that maybe, part of him just wants Connor close by). “Fuck, I can’t stand it, but I can’t really resist you. So maybe instead you can just ask me if I want whatever it is that we’re doing, and that way _both_ of us can be on the same ground, yeah?”

“I…” Connor trails off, taking a moment to mull over something. “If this is what makes you feel more comfortable, then I can acquiesce.” Despite saying those words however the pained expression remains on Connor’s face, and that just makes Hank want to sigh one more time. 

“You don’t have to look so ass-pained about it,” he huffs out, admonishing, even as he’s all too aware of the fact that he’s already lucky enough to be able to negotiate this much with Connor. But he wants to make his point clear. “Look, it's only been like, a _week_ since you killed me. If you don’t wanna force me into bein’ all over you, and you ‘like’ that I’m not just rolling over like the rest of them, then you’re gonna have to just deal with this.” Maybe he shouldn’t be pushing this and just shut up and take what he can get, but Hank has never been the kind of person to just lay down and take whatever life (unlife?) throws at him. Connor made his decision, and these are just the kind of things he has to deal with as a consequence of his choice.

Connor is quiet for a while, looking as if he’s in-between voicing out two very different things—but before he voices either of them his expression smooths out all at once, which concerns Hank up until he speaks, voice now cool and impassive. “I have said that I would not force your hand. And that continues to hold true, even for this.”

The words are probably meant to be some sort of reassurance, but that’s about the last thing that Hank feels considering the weird one-eighty Connor’s face pulled before getting his words out. The way Connor had just made himself blank like that, putting on that creepy, emotionless facade to hide the spoiled brat that he is underneath it all… Hank doesn’t know which side of Connor he’d prefer to have. An evil man-child who just wants to fuck the living daylights out of him, or a calm, cool pretty boy who could just snap his fingers and destroy Hank’s entire sense of self? If you ask Hank, they’re both equally dangerous. And obnoxious.

But at least he’s starting to see more than one side of Connor. It shouldn’t _feel_ as if something like this is worthy of a victory, but it does. Connor’s shown so little of himself that half the time Hank can’t tell much at all of the person Connor is underneath all of the masks that he wears. It’s… difficult, to put it mildly.

As if the shit piled on him while he was alive already wasn’t enough. Hank purses his lips and tightens his hold around Connor’s waist. “Good. Then don’t get so pissy when I’m trying to lay down boundaries, alright? Maybe one day you’ll get it without me having to cockblock you.” The words are mostly empty, what with Hank being well aware that Connor could use his powers to make him want it, but it's the principle of the matter here. If Connor wants to do this properly, then he’s got to earn it. 

Connor looks over to Hank then, raising an eyebrow cooly and speaks again in that cloyingly neutral tone of his. “There are no boundaries between us. What you have is what I _allow_ you to have.”

The words hit Hank like a bucket of ice cold water to the face, so cold that it makes him shudder. Yeah, he knows Connor's right, but hearing him say it is a chilling reminder of the power that Connor has over him; if he so desired Connor could just waltz into his head right now and rewrite everything about him like some kind of fucking computer program. God, what the fuck was he thinking, baiting somebody like Connor? He’s a shark. A shark that could snap his fingers and break his soul beyond repair the moment he gets tired of his new toy. It’s just as Connor said—everything that he has right now is only because of Connor’s whims. Fuck, this is all so messed up.

Hank loosens his hold on Connor all at once, any good feelings he might have had quickly disappearing. “Then you know how I feel about… all this. This shit.”

Connor doesn’t respond which only makes everything _worse_. Fucker probably doesn't even care. Why would he? Owning all of Hank's mind and soul is just a fucking Tuesday to him. Hank lets go of Connor entirely and takes a step back, burying his face into his hands, muttering. “Fuck, I need a drink.” He needs several drinks, actually. As many as he needs. It’s not like he has a liver to look out for anymore.

“Alcohol will have no effect on you, but it is one of the things your body is still able to ingest.” Hank looks up from his hands to face Connor, who has taken a step back himself. His shadows are all gone now, and his head is tilted as he stares at Hank back in return, expression unchanging. 

It takes a bit for Hank to find his words. “Fucking—seriously?” he asks, unable to stop the question from coming out of him, even though the answer is already clear to him. God, of course the world still had to shit of him some more. Sure, he hasn’t felt the need to imbibe since becoming a vampire but that doesn’t mean he actually _thought_ about quitting altogether. He’s well aware he had a dependance on the stuff, but there’s no denying how much the buzz helped him when he needed it the most. And yet now that’s just become another door that’s closed to him forever. Of course the one thing he could have relied on to be there for him has to be taken away from him like this. Of course. God, just thinking about it fucking _hurts_.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, softly at first, and then louder the second time round. “ _Fuck._ ” God, what the fuck is he even trying to accomplish here? All this bullshit about learning to control his hunger and using telekinesis and activating his third eye or whatever the fuck that is. Why is he even bothering with all of this, when the existence of his very self is sitting comfy in the hands of some spoiled vampire manchild who just wants him for a good lay? He may have already been low before getting turned, but this has to be as low as he can go—from hunting monsters to being some bratty kid’s personal fucking pet. Sure, Connor gave him some freedom, but it's pretty fucking clear that it's all conditional at best. The moment Hank tries to set up some ground rules he’s put back in his place. 

He should have known better. All of this is nothing but one big fucking joke. Hank Anderson, reduced to nothing more than a glorified fucktoy for some fucking twink vampire. Of course this is how it ends for him. _Of course._

It’s all so tragically hilarious that Hank can’t stop himself from laughing horribly at the irony that is his life and unlife, doubling over as tears start streaming down his face. “Fuck this,” he breathes out, in between hiccups of growing hysteria. “Fuck! This!” He hears the way his own laugh echoes in his ears, how ugly and scared it is, reflecting the horrible state of himself that he’s been actively trying to deny since he woke up to find that he’s dead. He’s just so fucking done with all of this. So done. He never fucking asked for this and it _hurts_ to know just how much is lost to him for good. 

He doesn’t know how long he stays there laughing—it could have been just mere minutes, or maybe even a whole fucking hour. It doesn’t matter at this point. Hank just laughs until he can’t any more, hunching over himself as his body slowly eases off with the shaking. His lungs heave for air that he doesn’t need, face and body still cool and clean of sweat despite everything that’s just happened. Yet another painful reminder of what he is now, and what no longer is.

The sounds of the night is the only thing that Hank hears as he doubles over and stares at the ground at his feet. But eventually, something shifts, and then he hears Connor speak. Nice of him to fucking chime in now, huh. “No matter how much you hate it, this is your existence now.” His words sound distant, his tone detached. “Immortality is as much of a curse as it is a gift.”

Some part of Hank wonders if those words are meant for him or for Connor himself, but honestly he can’t bring himself to care. Either way, those words don’t help. He had said that they’d table that discussion, that they’d talk about the fact that he’s going to live forever—but here it is now, anyway. An eternity of servitude to a monster. Not that Hank himself is any better; he’s a monster now, too. He would live forever regardless of if he likes it or not.

His body is still shaking. Hank forces himself to _breathe_ so that he can steel himself for long enough to get out of here. Out of all of this. He knows he’ll never get it, but he just… he just needs to not be here right now. To not be _this_. 

He straightens up and turns around, his back facing Connor. “I need some space,” he forces out the words from his clogged throat. “I’m going back inside.”

A moment of silence, then: “Very well. We will continue this tomorrow.” More silence, and a slight shuffling of feet. “Your blood bags will be waiting for you back in your room.”

He hears an almost inaudible _woosh_ from behind him, and Hank turns around just in time to see the last fragments of Connor’s shadows dissipating into the air, leaving no trace of itself or its master. His… fuck. 

“Jesus christ.” Hank turns back with a shake of his head and starts walking back by himself. There was definitely an air of something in the way Connor exited the whole situation. Like he was pouting, or maybe he spent the whole time that Hank had his breakdown regretting ever turning a dumbass like him. But seriously, did Connor really just throw a baby fit because _Hank_ is upset? God, he really is a manchild. But at least he’s not petty enough to leave Hank starving, for all the good that _that_ does. It’s barely a consolation to everything else that Connor has done to him.

Hank doesn’t exactly rush his way back to his room, but the moment he’s back Hank shuts the door behind him and locks it tight. He know that it won’t do him much good at all, but the presence of a physical barrier between him and Connor right now is at least making him feel a little better. That, along with Sumo, who waddles up to him and paws at his shoes with a quiet whine.

Hank lowers himself to the floor and brings Sumo into his arms, pressing his face into that spread of familiar, soft fur. “Hey, boy. You must be pretty bored in here too, huh?”

Sumo doesn’t respond beyond a snuffle and a lick into his hair. Hank presses a kiss and rubs his dog’s belly, taking comfort in the old gestures that he can still do now. It helps him feel just a bit more alive, which is all that he can ask for. 

He feels the hunger starting to gnaw at him and he pulls his face out from Sumo’s fur to stare up at the table. Just as Connor said, he sees the bucket there, and the edge of a blood bag pokes out over the rim as if to taunt him. Hank knows that he has to eat, but he feels like of self-conscious about it now, knowing that Sumo is here and will probably have to watch him as he feeds. Still, he knows better than to deny himself when any of the alternatives will be much worse. He could never forgive himself if he ended up hurting Sumo because of his stubbornness.

With a sigh Hank gives Sumo a few more pets and rubs before nudging the St. Bernard off him and getting back up onto his feet. He goes over to the table and picks up one of the blood bags from the bucket, taking a moment to look at it before biting into it and downing the blood into his system. While adequate, he can’t help but think how incredibly stale it tastes when compared to Connor’s blood. Everything pales in comparison to the taste of Connor’s blood.

Hank grimances at that thought. He wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what Connor had intended. He did say that he could make Hank addicted to him before. Maybe it's a good thing that Hank is finally getting some time to himself. He certainly could use the fucking space after the last few days.

God, he’s so fucking done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ambiguous drum of grief](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_YcB6vaTii0).
> 
> Hahaha yeah... that sure was a way to end the chapter alright. |D But as you guys can probably guess, this was more of a transition chapter than anything else... but I hope you guys enjoyed it anyway! Hopefully it answered a few questions and maybe gave several more that might be relevant in the near future... heh heh. Also, If the terms 'Skal' and 'Ekon' are familiar to you, its because I have unashamedly taken them from _Vampyre_ , which you may know as that vampire game made by the studio that was also responsible for _Life Is Strange_. No knowledge of them is required! I'm simply borrowing the names because they're cool haha.
> 
> As always, the usual special thanks to **jj** for taking the time to beta this, and **Jan** who continues to encourage all these shenanigans as my partner in crime. And once again to **Mao** for drawing these [two](https://twitter.com/chococo_mao/status/1082132498388140034) [pieces](https://twitter.com/chococo_mao/status/1086796819596599296) of art!! (SFW and semi-NSFW respectively) This chapter definitely came out a lot faster than I anticipated... not that it's a bad thing, since the next two chapters will be much more manageable in terms of length I think. So hopefully I can manage out a chapter in Feb despite having to start on the Hankcon 19 big bang alongside immersing myself in the craziness that will be Kingdom Hearts 3... 
> 
> SPEAKING OF KINGDOM HEARTS 3, for anybody who may want to read something of mine that will not be a WIP, I'm pleased to say that my posting for the Hankcon 18 Big Bang will be around this time next week! ...which also happens to be KH3 day, so lmao. But yeah, if you guys wanna read something else I've written that isn't going to be a long ass WIP, then hopefully that fic can help with that. :D If you want to be notified the moment I post it, then feel free to follow me on Twitter **@tasogareika**! I also babble about hankcon and retweet a lot of stuff about it, among other things.
> 
> Like every other time, thank you all so much for taking the time to read this fic, and doubly so for commenting/kudos-ing/bookmarking it. Knowing that people like this crazy idea of mine is what keeps me going. <3


	7. act of demon or work of god

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank gets gussied up, has a talk with Connor, and contemplates his life choices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Nothing that really warrants an explicit warning, though I will point out that there is some brief discussion/allusions to Stockholm Syndrome. I'm sure most people are familiar with the term, but [here's](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stockholm_syndrome) a handy Wikipedia link for those who are not. It may be a uncomfortable topic to some people, so I just want to point this out to cover my bases. :)
> 
>  **17/3 EDIT:** Much thanks and love to **Mao** for helping me go through this chapter and catching a whole bunch of additional mistakes and other stuff that needed fixing. |Db

The nights that pass after that are… well. Strange, to put it mildly—awkward, if he’s going to be honest about it. For one, Connor seems to have taken his desire for space almost literally; while he still comes around at the start of each night to continue to teach Hank about his powers (and is notably being far less hands-on than he had been compared to the first week), the moment they’re done for the day (or night, as it were) Connor pretty much just vanishes with those shadows of his and leaves Hank to his own devices.

It’s certainly weird, after all the time spent with Connor literally plastered at his side. Or his back. Or… well, just generally being There, constantly, even when Hank doesn’t want it. Now Connor is all distant and never so much as interacts with him beyond their scheduled nightly training sessions.

Maybe Hank should be happy about this. He should be celebrating. He definitely does appreciate the space, but the way Connor constantly appears and then vanishes just makes Hank want to roll his eyes at the sheer childishness of it all. The logical, mature way to go about solving this issue would actually be to _talk_ about this—like it or not they’re looking at spending a fucking eternity together; Connor can’t just run off and hide simply because Hank doesn’t want to bang 24/7.

Then again, considering the stalemate that’s been between them since that night, maybe an eternity of awkwardness might just be possible. Hank isn’t all that inclined to ask Connor to stop being such a baby either, even if a part of him does miss his touch and his presence and (most of all) his blood. Yeah, that fucking sucks but it’s true. If there’s one thing Hank has come to learn since he got turned, it would be the fact that all these feelings—these instincts—are a part of him. Not that it makes anything easier; Hank’s always been great at denying parts of himself, so that awareness doesn’t really change anything for him at all. So he gets hungry. He gets lonely. It’s fine. He can deal with it.

And so dealing with it is what Hank does, and before he knows it three weeks have passed. Now Hank finds himself lying in bed the night before the big… other night. Presentation. Connor had informed him at the end of the last session that Hank had this night off to rest up for the big event, which just means he has this whole night alone with nothing but his thoughts. Connor probably did it as a courtesy, but Hank’s never had anything good come out of being alone in his head. Doubly so now, given the multitude of things that he’s been actively trying to not dwell upon. Things like the future, how Sumo would eventually grow old in just five years down the road, and the idea of being stuck with Connor forever—it's all too much for him.

He sighs and pushes himself to sit up, glancing over to the corner of the room where Sumo has taken up residence. The St. Bernard’s curled up at his new favourite spot, which happens to be right next to an entire shipment of dog food. Hank had requested for it during that week before things went to shit between them; Connor, in his overly extravagant fashion, had summoned out said crate from his shadows, and then proceeded to obliviously ask Hank if he needed more.

Well. He would need more eventually, but hopefully by then Hank would actually be able do it himself instead of asking Connor to handle it. He supposes the one upside to this is that at least Sumo wouldn’t be left wanting for food anytime soon, even if half of the stuff in the crate would probably expire before Sumo could get to them. 

Try as he might, however, Hank can’t find it in himself to be wholly mad about it. It’s nice to not have to worry too much about Sumo; the dog’s acclimated himself to his new life here much better than his owner. By the end of his second week Sumo had already found his favourite place to lie down, familiarized himself with the grounds and even picked a spot to go and answer nature’s call when needed. They might as well install a doggy-door for him. It’s clear to Hank that Sumo pretty much considers everything here an upgrade from his previous life—the dog’s far happier than he’s ever seen him be. 

If only Hank could be just as easily appeased.

The fact is that he _could_ be happy, if Hank really wanted to; his mind is more than eager to remember the sweet sensation of Connor’s power and influence wrapping around him. It’d be so easy to just let himself surrender to that feeling of home and comfort, to allow himself to give in to everything that Connor offers and let that contentment carry him away. 

He could, but Hank knows that the moment he gives in is also the moment where he’ll truly lose everything, and that’s the last thing he’ll ever let happen. His identity and sense of self are all he has left, and even those are a little in the air sometimes. He can’t afford to give in any more; he has to draw the line somewhere, and better to do it now while he still can. There’s no telling when Connor might just go back on his word and take away all the free will that Hank still possesses. 

It's certainly far from a comforting thought. Hank squashes down the way his gut seems to recoil at the thought of being unable to trust Connor, something inside of him hissing at the absurdity of the idea. It’s stupid to not trust Connor, that part of him whispers. Of course he can depend on Connor; he _should_ depend on Connor because he’s the one who made Hank like this. Connor bit him and turned him and gave him his blood so he is his mas—

Hank stops that train of thought before it can go any further and shakes his head to clear his thoughts. It’s a constant struggle to keep his mind from steering into that direction, but with each passing day it just gets harder and harder, especially when all those thoughts also feel so _right_. It’s hard to keep resisting when his list of reasons to distrust Connor doesn’t hold up as strongly as it had in the past. Not that Hank plans to trust Connor anytime soon, but. He can’t exactly say he wholly distrusts him either. 

He shifts, leaning forward as he sighs again and rubs the side of his face. 

God, this whole shit’s so fucked.

For better or for worse his train of thought gets interrupted by a knock on the door. Hank lowers his hand and glances over at the door with a frown. It’s weird to imagine that any of this house’s other two occupants would be inclined to do something as polite as knocking, but there’s nobody else here besides him…

Well, no point dwelling on something like that. Might as well just see for himself who it is. “Yeah?”

There’s a beat of silence before the door opens, and Hank can’t quite stop himself from blinking in surprise when it's Connor who steps through the threshold into the room. While both Niles and Connor are assholes in their own respective ways, Niles at least carries himself with a certain decorum, fake as it may be. Connor, not so much. Which is kind of why the simple act of knocking is such a surprise for Hank.

If Connor had noticed said surprise, he doesn’t say anything about it (which is probably for the best—Hank knows he wouldn’t appreciate having it pointed out to him); all he does is step up next to the bed. “You need to be dressed appropriately for tomorrow,” he says, in lieu of a greeting, “I bought some clothes for you to try on.”

A hello wouldn’t have hurt, but the fact that Connor did knock before entering is kind of an achievement, so Hank’s willing to let that slide. And it’s not like he doesn’t appreciate getting right to the point instead of all the awkward small talk people usually do beforehand. 

Hank nods and then shifts again, planting his feet onto the floor as he pushes himself out of bed entirely. “Wow. So even you have to buy clothes like the rest of us, huh?” Connor’s outfit _is_ considerably more modern compared to some of the ones he’d seen with some of the Council members, so maybe it shouldn’t be that much of a surprise.

“I wouldn’t stop you from keeping what you already have, but Niles advised me otherwise.” Connor flicks his hand in the direction of the table as he says that, and in the next moment his shadows come slithering out from underneath the furniture. 

Hank nods in understanding. “Gotta look good for the Council. I get it.” He keeps his eyes on Connor’s shadows as he says that, watching as they creep up to the surface and coalesce into a vague box-like shape. It stays in that form for a brief moment before melting away to reveal a stack of neatly folded up clothes.

Connor hums and gestures to said stack of clothing. “Try them on and see which one suits you the most.”

Hank glances at the clothes. Not too long ago he probably would have wondered if trying on clothes that have been magically summoned by creepy shadows was a good idea, but by now he’s seen Connor use those shadows more than enough times to know they’re more or less harmless (to him, anyway). 

Hank steps over towards the table and picks up each article of clothing from the stack, examining them one by one. “Niles sure knows how to shop,” he casually remarks as he goes through them. It’s easy enough to guess which of these were picked by Connor (suits with styles similar to what Connor himself tends to wear) and which probably came under Niles’ recommendation (a mix of things Hank tends to lean towards plus a few other more… frillier options). None of them have any painfully bright patterns or print though, which is a little disappointing, but he had intended to dress up a bit anyway even if Connor hadn’t come down here with these clothes.

After Hank finishes going through the selection of clothes, he moves on to separate out the ones that he’d be more inclined to wear. “So, should I be thinking function or form for this?” He knows that he’ll have to be physical for whatever the Presentation throws at him, but who the fuck knows what kind of standards the Council expects. Probably something outlandish, considering what Hank knows about them. 

Connor hums again at the question, taking a moment to consider before replying, “Function.” His gaze flickers between Hank and the clothes in his hand as he speaks, “If nothing here is suitable I can acquire more selections that will be more suited to your tastes.”

“Nah, it's fine.” Hank pretty much already knew what to pick out, but he just wanted to be sure. He picks out a dark-colored dress shirt with black pants, as well as a somewhat sturdy overcoat that’s still mostly form over function, especially with its weird color that sits somewhere between maroon or purple. All of these are definitely far from his usual choices. He certainly wouldn’t want to wear any of these on a regular basis, but he knows that he has to put on a good show and at least seem to look like Connor’s fledging, as much as he doesn’t enjoy it. 

He sets out his choice of clothes from the rest of the stack and gestures at them. “These ones. We should at least try to match, yeah?”

Connor inclines his head as he studies the choices that Hank’s made, blinking several times. “If you want,” he says after a pause, looking back to Hank. “There is no need to match me if you are not… comfortable with it.”

Now it’s Hank’s turn to blink because _well_ , that’s very much a thing that Connor has just said. _Comfortable._ Hank can’t help but smirk a bit at that. Somebody’s clearly been coaching Connor on basic decency, and there’s really only one person that comes to mind who could’ve managed that. Guess Hank has something to thank Niles for later.

Still, as nice as the notion is, it’s kind of moot given their whole deal. “This thing isn’t about me being comfortable,” he explains to Connor as he drapes the overcoat over the back of a chair. “We’re putting on a show for the Council more than anything, and if that means putting on a stuffy suit, then I’ll put on a stuffy suit.” Hopefully Connor can at least understand the difference; there are times for pleasing others and times for pleasing yourself, and this pretty much falls more into the former than the latter. Hank’s not doing this for him.

Connor shrugs carelessly in return. “I simply want you to be yourself, in whatever form that takes,” comes the reply. “I have no doubt that the Council will try to make your particular Presentation a difficult one.” 

Hank hums his agreement. Yeah, he can at least admit that Connor has a point there. With how much the Council must dislike them, it’s pretty clear that they’re gonna try to do something to make him fail. At the very least, he can be dressed comfortably for the occasion. 

He glances back down to the clothes that he’s picked out and considers what to do. Maybe he’ll swap out the pants for jeans and call it a Look. It would probably be more functional too. Yet somehow it’s a lot harder than it should be to justify the change to himself; some part of him kinda wants to stick to what he’s already picked just so he can feel connected to Connor, even though they’ve been apart for the last three weeks.

Being a fledgling is a fucking mess. Hank lets out a slow breath through his nose and nods at his chosen attire. “Alright, then this oughta do it.” He can debate on swapping out his jeans later since he’s got plenty from the pile of stuff Connor brought back from his house, so he doesn’t need to bother him to get any if he does decide to go with that.

Connor tilts his head in the other direction and blinks again. “As long as you’re certain.” He gazes over to the table and waves his hand at it once more. Just like before, the shadows come crawling back out, though this time they just settle for creeping over the clothes that Hank didn’t pick. The shadows meld over them, covering them with inky darkness, then proceed to withdraw back from whence they came, leaving Hank with the stuff that he’s picked.

Once the last of the shadows have retreated Connor lowers his hand and turns back to Hank, his expression questioning. “Do you intend to try them on now?”

Truth be told Hank wasn’t really planning on it, but since Connor’s asking… “Might as well.” Hank reaches down to pick up the dress shirt, giving it a cursory look. “Let’s see if you guys have creeped on my size yet.” From a quick glance it certainly seems like Connor did indeed manage to get his size right, but then it really shouldn’t come as a surprise—Connor does have all his memories, what with the vampire thing. It’s something Hank tries not to dwell upon too much, but it is a fact nonetheless.

Yeah, thinking about that for too long is just asking for trouble. Hank puts those thoughts aside to focus back on the matter at hand. He puts the dress shirt back down and starts to shrug out of his own shirt after a moment’s pause. In any other situation he’d be self-conscious about undressing in front of anyone, but Connor’s already seen him naked more times than most people he’s known through his life, so it’s not like it matters at this point.

He’s only just started undressing when Connor interrupts him with another question that he _definitely_ did not see coming at all. “Do you require me to step out and wait?”

Hank has to pause at that, if only because he can’t stop the incredulous look that he sends towards Connor’s way. “Just… turn around if you want to, I guess?” It’s really hard to keep out the confusion in his voice; compared to all the other stuff that Connor’s put him through, something like this is virtually a non-issue at this point. There’s nothing here that he hasn't seen before.

“I want what _you_ want, Hank.” Connor’s gaze turns strangely serious as he says that, but Hank has little time to process his growing confusion as Connor goes on to elaborate. “Tomorrow night will undeniably be hard. As your sire I want to ensure that you can be at your best, in whatever form that entails.”

Hank takes a moment to just… stare. Yeah, he’s still pretty fucking confused at Connor’s sudden turnaround, but he sure isn’t going to question it. It’s nice to sort of have things go more his way for once, even if it seems to come out of fucking nowhere. Maybe Niles had something to do with this as well? It feels like that’s the only possible explanation, but Hank can’t imagine Niles having that level of decency. Did Connor read a book or something? ‘How to clear the barest fucking minimum of human decency?’

Wondering about it isn’t going to get him anywhere though. Hank blinks and shakes his head ever so slightly to get out of his thoughts. He’ll just take it as it is. After all, it's not as if he minds having Connor around. That had not been his beef with him back then, either. All he wanted was for Connor to _ask_ before he started taking. Was that really so hard to get? Apparently, yes.

Fucking vampires.

Hank bites down the urge to sigh. “Then stay. And turn around.” 

Connor blinks at the instruction, clearly not getting it in spite of his offer earlier, but he does as asked. He turns around to face the corner where Sumo is, keeping his gaze forward. Or Hank assumes he’s doing that anyway; he shifts his attention back onto the clothes the moment Connor turns his back to him; with how physical their relationship already is, he’s got nothing to hide in that department. 

He quickly gets out of his own shirt and picks up the dress shirt again, examining it much more closely this time around. Despite the situation, he can’t deny the small bit of excitement that he feels. Getting free shit is always nice, especially when it's clear it's also probably _expensive_ free shit, which he discovers when he finds a tie tucked inside the shirt’s breast pocket. It’s nice to just have something to focus on a bit instead of just sitting around on the bed and sweating out the wait to tomorrow night.

Hank puts down the tie to deal with later and starts to put on the new clothes, starting with the dress shirt. “I probably need some help with this in a bit.”

Connor doesn’t turn to look at him, but he does shift his head ever so slightly. “What kind of help would you need?” he asks, the confusion clear enough in his voice.

“Never been a tie man myself,” Hank responds with a shrug, even though he knows Connor can’t see it. He leaves the dress shirt unbuttoned for now as he slides out of his pants next. He sets that to the side along with his old shirt before grabbing the new pants to put on as well. It definitely feels a little weird, what with a guy like him dressing up in these nice, soft, finely-pressed clothes provided to him by a hot young-looking vampire who’s looking away from him as if they haven’t had sex before.

God, what a mess. A mess of a life that he has had to live in for nearly a month now, at this point. Like it or not, Hank has to come to accept that this disaster is what he’s going to have to deal with for the next indefinite period of his (un)life.

Hank lets out a slow, long exhale and turns his focus back on putting on these damn clothes. It doesn’t take too long at all, and they pretty much fit him perfectly. Once he’s got everything else on he finally gets to the tie, which… well, is somehow a lot more difficult than he remembers it being. The material of the fabric almost feels too soft and silky under his calloused fingers, and he fumbles with it a good few times before admitting to himself that he should probably just ask for help. “Okay, you can turn back. Can’t get this thing on straight.” 

He tries one more time as he hears Connor shifting to turn back, and in the next instant he can sense the approval coming from him. It makes him smirk a little; despite it all, it is nice to know that Connor’s still got it bad for him. It makes for a nice little ego boost for sure. 

The click of Connor’s heels against the floor echo in the room as Connor walks over to him. Hank makes his last attempt with getting the tie on right before deeming it a lost cause, sighing as he eyes the uneven knot he’d made. “I’m gonna need a clip or something for this,” he grouses out. “Who the hell fights in a tie anyway?”

Connor hums as he closes the last bit of distance between them, coming to a stop in front of Hank. His eyes sweep up and down across all of Hank, studying him with a gaze that sends a small shiver down his spine. It’s a heady feeling to be at the center of attention like this, it’s almost… reassuring. So some part of him _maybe_ had been a bit worried that Connor was regretting having turned him; who’d want a fledgling that’d bring them so much trouble? 

(Evidently, Connor.)

Hank sees a corner of Connor’s lips curl up ever so slightly before his attention is taken up by Connor reaching up to bat his hands away from his tie, replacing them with his own. “I was under the assumption that ties are a common thing with humans,” comes the comment from Connor as he begins to undo the knot that Hank’s made.

“I usually only wear ties at funerals.” Hank shrugs once again as he says that. It’d been years since he attended any kind of funeral, really; at some point in his life he had grown weary of them, each one doing nothing more except to give him a reminder of how much had been lost. How all those good people had died instead of him. He wasn’t going to go down without a fight, of course, but his tenacity kept him alive back then no matter how many times he tried to go out fighting—not until Connor, anyway. 

Not for the first time he wonders if anybody he knew would have noticed his disappearance by now, or even cared to look for him. He certainly wouldn’t be surprised if nobody did; there were more important things for them to do anyway. And as he’s thought before, he’d rather just fade into obscurity then have people trying to find him and end up encountering Connor. Hank doesn’t want that kind of blood on his hands. 

Yeah, the last thing he wants is anybody from his old hunter life bumping into Connor. That wouldn’t end well for anyone involved.

He watches as Connor works on the tie a bit more before the continued silence gnaws at him enough to break it. “I mean, it’s fitting, right? Since this shit’s gonna be… well, whatever it is.” Hank knows better than to try and deny the possibilities of what might happen. There’s probably a fair chance he might die out there tomorrow, depending on what the Council is going to pull on him. He isn’t going to take his defeat lying down, but, at the same time, he isn’t going to fool himself into assuming that things are going to turn out well. Anything can happen.

Connor frowns in response to that, somehow almost looking… _concerned_ , for some reason. It’s probably a trick of the eye though. Hank can’t see any reason why Connor would be concerned about anything he’s just said; it is more or less the truth. 

For better or for worse Connor doesn’t make any remarks, opting to simply reply instead. “There is nothing that the Council will throw at you that you cannot overcome,” he says matter-of-factly. “I have the utmost confidence in your abilities.”

That’s… Hank can’t deny how reassuring it is to hear that from him. “Thanks,” he manages out after a pause, only feeling slightly abashed. He’s definitely not used to having to thank Connor for anything, but even with the awkwardness between them, Connor has been diligent in teaching Hank about his powers and abilities throughout the month. The fact that Connor is so confident in him despite the odds is a balm on his nerves. It’s—it’s nice, almost.

This time Connor responds with a smile that is quite unlike any other. There’s none of that arrogant swagger that Connor tends to carry around with him, no hint of his usual brand of mocking cruelty—this smile is smaller, more private, and Hank is pretty sure that Connor doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Which is kind of a shame, because this smile kind of makes him look… cute. It’s disarming, really; Hank is almost convinced that this is one of Connor’s illusions if it wasn’t for the fact that Connor is partway to tying what has to be the most intricate knot that Hank has ever seen done on a tie.

He watches as Connor finishes up with the knot and adjusts it to sit perfectly at his collar. He keeps one hand there as he pulls out a light metal tie clip from the ether through his shadows. If he wasn’t sure before, he’s certain now that this is definitely his Connor. His sire. In a weird way, being connected to him maybe isn’t so bad. It’s a thought he can get to himself instead of it being something warped by his instincts or the pull in his blood. Connor’s _his_ just as much as Hank is Connor’s. It’s a new equilibrium that Hank knows he has to get used to, even if Connor’s way of handling stuff tends to be… immature at best.

Hank waits until Connor’s pulled his hands away from his chest, Connor having stepped back to fully take in what he’s done. “That should do it,” Connor says as he nods, and his voice is warm with approval which Hank can yet again feel through their bond. Part of him wants to do nothing more than soak in that, but Hank forces himself to push through that feeling. One of them has to be an adult about this, and it's certainly not going to be Connor.

He sets his gaze on Connor properly, giving himself a moment to take in a breath to prepare and then speaks. “Look, I know you’re pissed at me, but I’m gonna do my best, alright?”

“I know you will.” The response may have been almost immediate but it was also incredibly distracted. Connor isn’t looking at him and Hank can easily guess exactly where Connor’s gaze is fixated at—rather, the more appropriate way to put it would be that he can _feel_ where Connor is staring. He can sense the weight of Connor’s gaze boring into him, how all of his attention to drawn to his neck. It’s not hard to know why; now that he’s out of his usual jacket and scarf his neck is fully exposed, and the scars of Connor’s bite are plainly visible. No doubt Connor is taking his chance to soak in the moment, as it were.

Being aware of all that shouldn’t be such a weird relief, but it kinda is. The way Connor looks at him is nothing short of electrifying, and Hank can feel his instincts urging for him to show off those marks. To let Connor see the mark that he’s left, the mark that binds them together, letting him touch and kiss and then _bite_ —

Hank wrenches himself back before he goes too far down that particular rabbit hole. Christ, it's pathetic just how needy he’s feeling. Three weeks of distance and he can already feel himself starting to crumble. Being a fledgling really fucking sucks. 

He huffs loudly, and the action is apparently enough to draw Connor’s attention away from his neck, and he shifts his gaze back up to face Hank directly. “I’m not angry at you, Hank,” he says after a moment’s pause.

Hank can’t quite stop the snort that comes out from him in response to that. “Coulda fooled me,” he mutters, glancing away, not quite able to meet Connor’s eyes. “Doesn’t matter anyway. I’m kinda pissed at you too, anyway.”

Connor lets out a soft hum. “You’re always angry at me,” he says, voice almost too quiet even with the small distance between them.

This time Hank lets out a small, low chuckle instead. “Yeah, that’s not wrong.” The words come out much more wry than he had expected, which makes him pause for a bit. He finds himself hesitating a little, but Connor is still staring at him and Hank knows he can’t leave this hanging either. These last three weeks were… well, as much as he appreciates the distance he can’t deny the ache he feels all over, the craving he has for something as simple as touch. More specifically, touch from Connor. He knows he needs him like the deserts miss the rain or some shit. He’s spent a lot of time in the last three weeks struggling with that feeling; this desire inside of him that’s so raw and visceral that it feels so _inhuman_. 

But then, Hank isn’t a human anymore. He’s a monster with needs, and one of those needs happen to include physical contact with his sire. It is frustrating to realize how dependant he’s become, but yet he can’t quite muster out the same level of anger and hatred as he did before. Something like that should be worrying, but fighting it has only served to make him feel exhausted. He’s so tired from constantly having to be at war against himself, fighting between what he wants to do and what he _should_ be doing. Some days he can’t say for sure which is the better option. Christ, he’s just so tired.

He finally musters up the willpower to look back at Connor. He needs blood, so he drinks blood. If he needs Connor, then he has to make sure they’re at least on equal ground here. “That doesn’t mean I’m _just_ angry with you. People can have multiple emotions going on at the same time, y’know. They can even care about people and be pissed at ‘em, too.” Hank winces inwardly after those particular words. Okay, maybe that was saying just a bit too much.

He quickly attempts to cover for his words. Stupid fucking sentiment. “I mean, shit, they can even care about people they shouldn’t, and be pissed about that too.” Yeah, that didn’t do jack shit. If anything he’s just making it worse.

Connor blinks, the faintest hint of surprise crossing his face. It doesn’t take away the intensity of Connor’s gaze however—if anything, it only seems even more intense than before. 

The silence stretches on as Connor keeps staring at Hank. Hank squirms, he knows he’ll say something stupid if he opens his big mouth, so he’ll wait for whatever Connor’s got on his mind. Still, the silence veers almost into awkward. Eventually, though, Connor breaks it—and does so with a question of his own. “Do you?” His tone inscrutable when he asks. Given what’s happened so far, Hank doesn’t really have to ask for context. And when Connor is asking so directly… well, Hank can’t brush it off this time or try to lie his way out. Connor would know if he did, anyway. There’s no other choice but to actually be honest, it seems. 

Easier said than done.

“It’s been three weeks, Connor,” Hank starts, sighing. He sure as hell doesn’t like this, but he did kind of ask for it. All he can do now is to see it through to the end, even if it ends badly. 

Hank gives himself a second to take in another breath and then continues, “You’re my… okay. This is _me_ talking—not some instincts or that shit, but me.” He gestures at himself with his hands to emphasize the distinction; understanding that is kind of important here, especially with what he intends to say next. He certainly hopes that Connor gets it. 

Either way, he presses on, holding his ground in order to speak what he’s been wanting to say over the course of the last three weeks. “ _I_ don’t like what the weird fucking Council does to their fledglings, and I _appreciate_ that you didn’t do what they normally do when you turned me. It doesn’t change anything though—I’m still pissed that you turned me. That isn’t gonna go away for a long time. But considering that my ‘life’ pretty much depends on yours now and you’re holding me on the most Stockholm Syndrome-y leash in the fucking universe, I figure I can still worry about you.” 

He takes another brief pause here, seeing if Connor has anything to say. He doesn’t. In fact, Connor doesn’t really react to anything that he’s said so far beyond a slow tilt of his head—Hank’s pretty sure he hasn’t even so much as _blinked_ , which is really something he doesn’t want to think about while in the middle of this.

“This vampire shit, the connection that we have—” Hank gestures between them to indicate what he means. He probably didn’t have to, but he wants to make himself as clear as possible with no room for misinterpretation. “—I’m gonna have to accept it eventually. And that means admitting shit like… yeah, I care if you’re pissed at me. And I don’t… I don’t want you to die.” He sure as hell still hates Connor for what he’s done to him, but killing him isn’t going to change anything. He’s stuck here, like it or not, so all he can do is make the most of it.

Hank lapses into silence after those words, having pretty much said everything that’s on his mind. Connor is still staring at him with that unblinking gaze, and Hank feels discomforted enough by that stare to turn his own gaze downwards. He’s said his piece, and there’s nothing else he can do. All he can hope is that he hasn’t somehow accidentally touched something that might make Connor react negatively. Hank doesn’t regret anything that he’s said, but if this is how it ends… then well, maybe it just might be for the best.

The silence stretches on, almost past the point of discomfort, and Hank is nearly about to break it when Connor speaks up instead. “I wouldn’t want you to die, either.”

Hank looks back up; Connor is still staring at him, though now it takes him a moment to realize that Connor is blinking again, which does help to lower some of the creepiness factor. At least Hank doesn’t feel like he’s stepping on a landmine when he responds, “Yeah, I kinda figured that out. You could’ve just left me to starve if you didn’t give a fuck.” He shrugs after he says that, feigning for nonchalance when really the truth is that hearing those words did lift a huge weight off his shoulders. Hank knows how supremely easy it would be for Connor to kill him anytime he desired, so he _knows_ that Connor must care. And that alone means something. He hasn’t decided what yet.

“The bond we share is just as much of us as the hunger is, or any of the instincts that we have.” Connor attempts to demonstrate by gesturing between them much in the same way as Hank himself had done earlier, though it’s clearly more mimicry than an actual gesture. Points for effort, even if Hank already kind of got the idea from the words alone. At least the next part of what Connor says is more helpful. “I know it has not been long since your Turning, but I am glad you are more accepting of it now.”

Just like before Hank feels himself settling down at those words. Well, not him specifically, but a something inside of him that he’s been fighting against ever since the very first night. He knows all too well what it is and what it does to him—but try as he might, Hank knows he can’t keep fighting against it forever. Some point or other, he’s going to have to accept it, however begrudging it may be. Might as well do it now, while he’s still got a clear enough mind about everything.

Hank lets out another loud breath through his nose. “Look. I’m not saying I _like_ any of this, because I don’t. But I have to work with what I’ve got here, and that’s you. So maybe…” He trails off, needing a moment to try and find the best words to express himself here without sounding… without making it sound worse than it actually is. “...maybe, just, you know. Don’t give me the silent treatment for three weeks again, yeah? Not having you around is… it makes my teeth itch.” To put it very mildly. Hank doesn’t think he’s had a good night’s sleep ever since that night. It’s only when Connor is there that he… Hank can’t even let himself finish that thought. Christ. Being a fledgling is just the worst.

Connor blinks once, looking as if he’s surprised to hear Hank say that, which is a reaction that confuses Hank up until Connor speaks. “You said you wanted some space.”

Hank finds himself staring at Connor once again, if only in an attempt to express the sheer incredulity that he feels over hearing something like that. Had _that_ been the reason why Connor was so distant with him in the last three weeks? “Yeah, _some_ space. Like, maybe just leave me alone for one day and then ask me about it the next day or something, christ.” Maybe he should have expected something like this, considering Connor’s whole everything, but at the same time it's so ridiculous that Hank hadn’t even considered something like this to be in the realm of possibility. Connor is certainly a work of art in more ways than one.

Connor still looks like he doesn’t get it, so Hank elaborates on it further since he really wants to make this clear. He’s going to have to watch what he says if Connor’s going to keep taking everything so literally. “I know you’re like, hundreds of years old or whatever, so you probably don’t think three weeks is a big deal, but you kind of fucked off on me like just after a week of me getting turned.” Which, you know, might just be a little hurtful, if Hank is being honest with himself. He’s not a huge fan of the silent treatment that Connor’d been giving him, intentional or otherwise.

Throughout that particular bit Connor has been slowly tilting his head again, and when Hank is done Connor studies him with a considering look. “If that is the case, then what would you like me to do to make up for it?”

The question is enough to put a halt to Hank’s thoughts. His plan only went as far as airing out his grievances; he hadn’t really taken a moment to consider what to do after that happened. And he definitely can’t depend on Connor to help either, what with his tendency to only respond to things that happen in the moment.

Which, of course, only leaves having Hank decide for himself what he wants. Sex instantly comes to mind—which, as much as part of Hank _does_ want to have it, is also something he’s not entirely keen on. If things get weird again, Hank doesn’t want to risk the fallout on the big day (...night) tomorrow. With how important it is, he needs to have a clear head going into it. He doesn’t want to die just so that the Council can continue their fucked up traditions of brainwashing people.

“I…” he starts, slow and uncertain, still struggling to think of the right response to give here. “I guess just… stay and talk to me?” Hank inwardly cringes at what he’s just said. God, is that really the best he can come up with? But even as bad as it is he can’t take it back now; there’s no choice but to keep going. “Fuck, I know that sounds stupid, but I’ve spent the last three weeks with just my dog for company. Not that Sumo isn’t great, but he doesn’t make for the best conversation.” And now he’s just babbling anything that comes to his mind. Just great. He may have not been the best at human interaction nor the biggest fan of it, but even he knows he’s got to be better than this mess. “I mean, yeah, I was never a huge fan of people, but at least when I was human, I had to go grocery shopping and shit.”

There’s only the briefest of pauses before Connor nods in return. “If that’s what you wish.” At least he doesn’t seem to be bothered by it—though to be fair, not many things seem to bother him at all. It’s either that or Connor just doesn’t get it, which is another viable possibility. It’s definitely weird how Connor just doesn’t even seem to have a grasp on stuff other people would assume to be common sense. Or common decency, for that matter. There are a lot of mysteries about Connor that Hank can’t help but wonder about.

Maybe he can start there. Hank takes in a breath, just about to speak when Connor cuts in, “I assume you don’t intend to stay standing through the entire night.”

Hank pauses there. Yeah, okay, Connor has a fair point. “Oh, yeah. We can sit or whatever.” He steps back towards the bed and sits on the mattress, patting at a spot next to him to let Connor know that they can sit beside each other. He certainly doesn’t mind. Holding hands wouldn’t be all that bad either, if Connor wants to go there. Honestly, just about anything would be nice right now, with how much his body yearns for Connor’s touch. It’s got to be some vampire thing at work here.

Connor inclines his head to show that he’s acknowledged the suggestion, then moves to follow through it by settling down at the spot where Hank had gestured at, folding his hands onto his lap. Hank watches those hands for several moments before remembering that he had something he wanted to say—or rather, something to ask. He brings his gaze up to Connor, who’s looking back at him curiously, watching him as Hank goes on ahead to start talking. “You know all about my life or whatever, so why don’t you tell me about you? Like… I dunno, maybe when you and Niles first moved in here or something.” There’s just so much he doesn’t know about Connor that Hank can’t help but want _something_. He won’t pry if Connor wants to be secretive about it (and that sure wouldn’t surprise him), but at least he should be able to talk about this much, right?

The fact that Connor seems to mull over the question instead of just replying doesn’t give Hank much confidence, but just as that thought passes through him Connor begins to speak. “We came to this area around the 1930s, I believe. Niles had been in Europe prior to being here, and only came because the Council summoned him to work in an area closer to them. As for this particular residence, it was granted to us around 1990, upon Niles’ request.”

That’s more information than Hank had been expecting, which is nice. He scoots closer to Connor, just enough so that their thighs are pressed against each other. Not too much contact, but close enough to fully feel that Connor is indeed here, and that knowledge calms him greatly. He really should mind how much just having Connor around affects him, but after the last three weeks of being constantly on edge, he’s too relieved to dwell on it. It feels nice just having Connor around like this after all the silence and distance between them.

With how distracted he is, it takes a moment for Hank to realize that he should move onto the next question. Don’t just sit there and gawk, he tells himself, before opening his mouth. “So Niles wanted a place to stay…” he muses out loud. It makes sense; Niles is the one who Hank sees using more than one room, often milling about and giving Hank contemptuous looks when he goes to walk Sumo. Probably hoping the dog doesn’t piss on his floors or something. Still, that means they’ve been here for about thirty years. That’s pretty long for a couple of vampires to stay in one place, so they must be serious about staying here. And it’s not like any hunters have bothered them, so if they’re going to stay put for a long time, then it’d be better to just have a place. 

Right. As nice as it is to know all of that, it doesn’t quite answer the question. Hank looks over to Connor, asking, “What about you?”

Connor glances back at Hank in turn, a frown slowly appearing on his face. “What about me?” he echoes the question, sounding as if he doesn’t quite comprehend it. Which, while not a surprise, is worrying all the same. Is Connor truly this clueless, or…

Only one way to find out. “Where were you living before? You like this place better than that one, or what?”

Another blink from Connor at the question. He tilts his head to the side, apparently taking a moment to give some thought to his response before voicing it out. “The previous residence we were in was a penthouse suite in the city,” he says. “It was suitable to our needs, although Niles did not like having to take the elevator every time.”

It’s impossible to suppress the snort that Hank lets out upon hearing Connor’s words. Somehow the thought of a creature like Niles not enjoying elevators is far more amusing than it should be; all he can picture now is a very unamused Niles backed up into a corner of an elevator, acting like a particularly distraught cat. That mental image is a much better sight compared to how he is in real life, at any rate.

But again, as entertaining as that brief segue had been, it still leaves his question unanswered. “You keep talking about Niles… didn’t you care, one way or another?” 

“I simply follow where Niles chooses to go.” Connor gives a careless shrug alongside his response, clearly not giving much regard to his words. “If he wishes to remain here, I have no reason to dissuade him otherwise.”

Hank frowns, feeling somewhere between confused and just a little bit frustrated. He wants to say that Connor is being coy here, but his body language isn’t really giving him any signs of that. Could Connor really be… “You just follow your brother around wherever he goes? And do whatever the Council tells you? C’mon, there’s gotta be something you do just for yourself.” Surely even Connor has to have some personal hobbies or interests. Something personal. A favorite dog? _Something._

He doesn’t know what kind of answer to expect, but even then he’s entirely unprepared for the way Connor turns his head to _look_ at Hank, expression frank, and the tone of his voice surprisingly earnest as he says two simple words: “There’s you.”

Once more Hank finds himself staring at Connor, though now without a lot of the frustration he had previously harboured. If Connor’s being serious here, then Hank might be starting to see what kind of person he is. Or maybe what kind of a person he _isn’t._ Someone without wants, who just follows aimlessly and doesn’t understand people... if this is all true, then Connor is… a nobody. A blank slate. No sense of identity, no real personality, no… anything. It’s likely that Connor put on a persona of ‘arrogant vampire’ once upon a time and never figured out how to switch out of it. Would there even be anything underneath that mask if Hank peeled it away? Connor had to be _someone_ beneath all of this, right?

That’s not an answer that Hank thinks he’ll get any time soon, but it certainly leaves him pondering. Something like this is very clearly unnatural, but then again he’s dealing with vampires. It’s not impossible to imagine how Connor got to be this way. Maybe he’d been brainwashed at some point, and this is what remained of him. Maybe some other vampire wiped his memory, or hell, maybe Connor even asked for it himself. Hank wouldn’t put it past him. He just seems so… _okay_ with barely being a person. Hank can’t figure it out. It doesn’t feel like Connor is even mildly bothered by it, but it’s too weird for Hank. People just don’t… become like that without reason.

“Was…” Hank starts, then pauses to swallow down the lump that’s suddenly decided to make itself home in his throat. It’s crazy, to even picture the fact that this is simply just how Connor is—that anything he has is only skin deep at best. There has to be more to him. He’s at least over a hundred years old. How can someone be eternal and yet so transient at the same time? It’s a total contradiction. “Was turning me seriously the first thing you ever did for yourself?”

Connor hums. “I suppose so. It’s the first time I have…” He trails off at that point, expression turning pensive. Connor shifts to clasps his hands together on his own lap as he thinks. Hank is more than willing to give Connor all the time he needs in this case, waiting patiently until Connor is ready to resume answering.

He doesn’t keep track of how long Connor takes, but it is a good while before Connor does speak up again, finishing his answer. “I suppose it's the first time I have ever wanted something.”

“Wow.” There’s really not much else Hank can say here. That is actually pretty messed up, and it's hard to not feel bad for him. To live for so long and yet not really knowing anything about what living actually is? He’d almost consider it a crime. At least that kind of explains why Connor’s so fucking weird. Had he just forgotten? Or did he spend so long living that he just didn’t care anymore?

Hank nudges Connor in the side with his elbow, trying to lighten the mood. “Guess you’ve got a lot to learn, huh?” he can’t help but tease, just a bit. Anything to move on from the fact that Connor’s even less human than Hank would’ve guessed.

Connor, weirdo that he is, doesn’t even get the least bit riled up. Instead he simply turns to look at Hank’s elbow, then up to his face, blinking once before he speaks. “I’m older than you,” he says, the confusion easily heard in his voice.

Hank snorts in response. “Maybe. But it sounds like you haven’t really _lived_ all those years, from what I’m hearing.” He reaches down and pats Connor’s knee with the same hand he had nudged him with just earlier. “Just coasting by isn’t living.”

Connor glances down at the hand on his knee and hums, then turns away from Hank to stare back forward, his expression becoming pensive again. “Is that why humans do what they do?” he asks after a bit of silence. 

Now it’s Hank’s turn to blink at Connor in confusion. What did Connor mean by that question? Exactly what were humans doing that Connor was asking about? The lack of any kind of specifics wasn’t really helping here, and Hank doubts he’s going to get any of that from anyone else here. Besides, Hank is pretty sure any answer he gives is probably not what Connor wants to hear. 

He doesn’t want to just dismiss the question entirely, though. “I dunno. I haven’t really talked to any other vampires besides you, so I can’t really say.” That’s the most honest answer he can give.

Another hum from Connor. It’s clear that he’s still mulling over the question, though the pensiveness on his face has receded a fair bit. “Markus might be interested in speaking with you, should he decide to come by again.”

That… is quite the change of topic, but Hank can roll with it. He does have to ask, however— “Which one’s Markus? I’m assuming he wasn’t at the Council pow-wow.” Because it had been pretty fucking clear that none of them had even the slightest interest to talk to him. 

Connor gives a small shake of his head. “No, he isn’t a member of the Council; Markus is the leader of Jericho—another community of vampires.” Hank blinks when he hears that, but before he can ask more about it Connor takes the initiative to explain further. “They live under the Council’s rule, but are self-sustaining. They do not take any aid that the Council offers to them, but maintain diplomatic relations.”

Hank isn’t surprised at the fact that vampires have factions of their own—the Council meeting alone had been enough to prove it entirely possible—but he is surprised that the Council actually allows some group of them to be on their own. Hard to imagine a bunch of vampires that apparently want nothing to do with the Council but could still be cordial with them. “So like, are they renegade vampires or some shit like that?” Splinter cell faction? Whatever dramatic terms that they’d want to use to label them. Hell if he knows.

He hears Connor make a small, amused sound at the back of his throat. “‘Renegade’ carries the implication that they’re fighting. They have simply chosen to live their lives in a manner different from the Council.”

“Right. Guess they’d have to play nice if the Council isn’t on their asses.” It occurs to Hank at that point that Connor would be aware about these kinda things, given what he does for the Council. Then again, given how they had treated Connor in that meeting, it’s probably more likely that Connor only gets information on his targets on a need-to-know basis. Hard to say if that’s better or worse though.

Still, at the very least, they should be treating Connor better than how they are now. Seems like that’s what this Markus guy is trying to do, given how Connor talks as if he personally knows the man. Were they friends? Hank doesn’t want to really think about how a friend of Connor’s might be like, given how Niles is. But he _does_ want to know more about Connor… maybe it wouldn’t hurt trying to know more. “So, why d’you think he’d wanna talk to me? They brainwash less in Jericho or something?”

A thoughtful look appears on Connor’s face once more, seemingly having to mull over the question. Hank doesn’t know what Connor has to think about for something like this, but he waits anyway. 

Soon enough, Connor answers. “The vampires in Jericho do not believe in the same tiers of power that the Council holds onto. All humans who get turned are humans who have willingly chosen to walk the path of the night, and they are released from their sire the moment they awaken.” He pauses here and tilts his head, letting out a hum. “You are the only fledgling under the Council who retains his agency. I’m sure Markus will no doubt be interested in hearing your story.”

Hank definitely needs a moment to take all that in. Considering the types of monsters that Hank used to hunt, it’s hard to imagine a community of them banding together to forego their usual societal rules. Obviously, he had never thought of asking the vampires he’d killed in the past if they were fledglings that had been released by their sires, or if they themselves were sires that wanted to release their mindless pawns for the greater good. He can’t tell what this Jericho group is trying to do—were they really being altruistic, or just trying to spread more vampires across the world? He supposes he won’t know until he sees this Markus guy for himself. Not that he has much choice in the matter, it’s really up to Connor. But then that’s getting dangerously close to dwelling on that whole part where Hank’s the only fledgling here that isn’t brainwashed. It’s too depressing of a thought even for him.

He snorts and pulls his hand away from Connor’s knee. “Ain’t I special,” he mutters, fully sarcastic. Hank is hardly inclined to think that anything about where he is right now is special in any way. 

As Hank considers getting out of bed to change back into his original clothes, he feels a touch at his knee. He looks down to see that it's Connor who’s put his hand there, prompting Hank to look up and see the all too earnest look that Connor is giving him right now.

He tries to say something to deflect from the earnestness that he can see, but Connor speaks up first. “You are.” Two very simple words, but Hank can hear the whole-hearted belief that Connor has put in them. 

In all honesty, they shouldn't work on him at all. They shouldn't. Connor is the person who killed him, and his weird fixation and fascination on him is the whole reason why they’re in this mess in the first place.

But damn if they don’t make something warm settle in the pit of his cold, dead heart.

Hank turns away from Connor to stare at Sumo’s sleeping form. “Guess I’m gonna have to prove it tomorrow.”

“You will.” The warmth of Connor’s hand vanishes from his knee, only to reappear around his own hand. It’s surprising enough that Hank turns back, and he sees that Connor has taken one of his hands with his own, their fingers linked together. 

He raises his gaze up further to Connor’s face and sees the same small, private smile on his face from earlier. The cute little ones that he’s quickly coming to like. God, it’d be so much easier to hate Connor if he really was an evil monster - like how vampires are supposed to be - instead of being some kind of immature, ancient abomination.

But at least Connor is _his_ immature, ancient abomination. Hank quirks a small smile of his own as he squeezes Connor’s hand, savouring the attention and touch that he feels. This is his life now, like it or not. It’s far from great, but it could’ve also been much worse, so maybe he’ll take what he can get.

“Hope so,” he mutters. If anything else, Hank wants to ensure that the Council knows they won’t get away with treating both him and Connor like shit.

Connor’s smile widens ever so slightly, and Hank feels a rush of affection coming from him as Connor squeezes his hand in very much the same way Hank had done earlier. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t feel nice; by this point, Hank hardly feels any of the anxiety that had been haunting him earlier. Knowing that Connor is here and that Connor has his back eases those nerves a lot more than he could have ever expected. Just having his sire close feels… nice.

Their conversation drops to a lull after that, but the silence that sits between them now is a hell of lot more comfortable compared to when Connor first stepped into this room earlier. Even if all they do for the rest of the night is to sit like this (and hold hands), Hank thinks he wouldn’t mind it one bit. He’s such a sap.

They stay like this for a fair bit of time, and as much as Hank is fine with just this, Connor ends up breaking the silence between them. “If there’s anything I can do to help you still, let me know.”

Yeah, he’d just told himself that he was okay with this, but at the same time the promise to be given what he wants is all too tempting to ignore. The problem is figuring out exactly what he actually wants from Connor, and what Connor can do for him at this time that isn’t just sex. Sure, he knows it’d be nice, but he doesn’t want to do it just for the sake of it. Hank’s had more than enough emotionless sex in his life as a human—those instances never ended well for him. It’d be the same here, too; he would enjoy it, yes, but then he’d just spend the time after that berating himself for being weak and giving in to his urges. Not to mention Connor…

...well, Connor would be more than down for it, that much he knows. But Connor only likes him because he’s his _First_. It’s never been about him directly, but rather what he _is_ , and there’s a very distinct difference between the two. 

He looks over to Connor. Sex is off the table, but it's not like he doesn’t have any other ideas. He has one very good idea on what he wants; the words are right there at the tip of his tongue, but saying them out loud is another thing entirely. He just can’t spit it out. Hank’s been working on getting more used to this whole vampire thing, but a month is hardly enough to come to terms with a whole new world and life that directly clashes against everything he had once been. Saying that things are hard is a massive understatement.

But even then, Hank knows he can’t keep ignoring what both his body and mind crave for. If anything that craving gnaws at him stronger than ever now that Connor is right next to him. 

It takes a few tries before Hank manages to find his voice, hesitant still as he trips over the words. “Can I, uh…” God, this is way too fucking hard to say. But if he doesn’t then he’ll only feel _worse_ , and being at his best for tomorrow is the biggest priority for both of them right now. 

Hank takes a breath, swallowing down the lump in his throat, and forces himself to keep going. “Just… drinking blood from a bag isn’t really as good as—you know.” He weakly gestures at Connor with his free hand, hoping that that will be enough to indicate what he means.

Judging by the amused tilt of Connor’s smile that happens almost immediately, that seems to be the case. Connor gives his hand one more squeeze before letting go and shifting to stand up from the bed. The act confuses Hank for a moment, but it clicks when Connor slips out of his jacket, where Hank can see just the slightest hint of the flawless, pale skin of Connor’s wrists. It’s enough for his instincts to kick in; Hank stares at that little tease of skin as all of his senses hone in, mouth already starting to water just at thought of drinking Connor’s blood. 

He keeps his gaze fixated on that patch of skin, unable to tear his gaze away. Distantly, he hears the rumple of fabric as Connor drops what he presumes to be the jacket he had just gotten out of, followed by the faint whisper of what he’s come to recognize as Connor’s shadows. Connor sits next to him again once he’s out of his jacket, hands busy rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt, and Hank finds himself staring even more intently at Connor’s wrist as more of his arm gets exposed.

“The blood bags always have a stale taste to them.” Hank nearly doesn’t hear the words from Connor, distracted as he is. He forces himself to shift his gaze away from Connor’s wrists, looking back up to his face, watching the way he smiles the moment their gazes meet. “That’s the price for not having it fresh.”

If Hank had his way he’d really rather not talk about this, but he also doesn’t want to give Connor any wrong ideas. The worst thing right now would be if Connor thought he _didn’t_ want this. “I’ll take the bags over going out and hurting people.” It’s an effort to get those words out; sitting around and discussing what kind of blood tastes better is something Hank is far from comfortable with doing. 

Connor hums. If he has an opinion on the matter of hurting people, he sure doesn’t share it. “The bags are adequate for what they do,” Hank hears him say, and he nods absently in agreement. Yeah, the bags are okay compared to the alternative, but…

He sees Connor finish rolling up his sleeves, both of his arms now fully exposed from the elbow up. It’s enough to make the words come tumbling out from Hank before he realizes it. “It’s just… it’s not the same.” Nothing compares to drinking Connor’s blood. _Nothing._

Connor makes a soft, amused sound, the corners of his lips curling upwards. He shifts, getting ready, but stops before he can even offer his arm, giving Hank pause. He looks on in confusion as Connor glances between them and the bed before suddenly shifting to lie on his side, facing Hank and giving him an expectant look.

“It’ll be easier for you, this way,” he says, and Hank… well. He’s definitely side-eyeing this a little, but at this point he’s too keyed up to be able to deny himself something that he so desperately needs. He just hopes that Connor will at least pretend to ask before whammying him with his powers this time around.

“...Alright,” he returns, nodding, then moves to get out of his own jacket as well. He puts that onto the bedside table once it's off him, then settles down in bed with Connor, his back facing him. 

Connor moves closer to him the moment Hank’s settled, a warm hand stroking down his side, lips pressed to the back of Hank’s neck. “You’ll feel much better soon,” Connor murmurs, and hearing that promise is enough to make him start relaxing despite how wired he feels.

Hank lets out a slow breath, forcing himself to ease up, and Connor kisses his neck one more time before he pulls away. Not long after the scent of Connor’s blood begins to fill the air, and he sees Connor’s bleeding wrist held right in front of him. “Drink up, my blood.”

It should feel wrong, how much he wants this. How much he needs this. His gut squirms with how much wrongness he feels in letting himself do this but he’s already in for it. He’s in for this and he knows that he’ll be rewarded the moment he takes Connor’s wrist is his own hands and presses it up to his mouth.

So he does. He reaches out to hold onto Connor’s arm and brings it forward to his lips. He drags his tongue over the wound, licking up all the blood that’s spilled out, unwilling to waste even a single drop. When he’s cleaned off his sire’s wrist, Hank then seals his lips over the wound and begins to suck in earnest. The taste of Connor’s blood floods all of his senses with that familiar warmth and depth he gets through their connection, the comforting feeling of being united with his sire, with a taste that can only be described as _home_. Like it or not, Hank has to admit that he missed this, and that’s not just from his instincts this time. He’s fully aware of what he’s doing, and instinctively or not, he needed this.

As he drinks he feels Connor shifting again, this time leaving no space between their bodies as Connor’s front presses flush against his back. _Drink as much as you want,_ he hears Connor speak through their bond, his sire’s mouth already occupied with kissing and nuzzling at the back of his neck. 

Hank hums low in his throat and adjusts himself to get more comfortable, mouth still sealed over Connor’s wrist. God, it feels good. Every inch of his skin, from head to toe, feels so good. It’s impossible to describe just how good and nice and warm he feels just filling himself with his sire’s blood. It only gets better when he feels Connor’s influence coming up to curl around him, the touch of his sire’s power bringing him both calm and comfort. He can’t stop himself from dragging his fangs over Connor’s skin, biting down to get more of that sweet blood into him, groaning softly when he does. He wasn’t even hungry before all this, but now, Hank feels like he could drink forever.

Connor continues to nuzzle him, holding him close both inside and out, and it feels perfect. Everything about his sire feels so warm and good and nice. Try as he might, Hank knows he can’t deny the fact—the fact that this is what he’s been missing these last three weeks. He can fight it all he wants, but his sire’s affection will always make him melt into peace and warmth.

It’d be so easy to lose himself while he partakes in his sire’s blood, but this time Hank manages to tread that fine line and keep his head on straight. He drinks until he’s had his fill and manages to make himself let go, pulling away from Connor’s wrist with a quiet gasp. Connor’s blood is still warm on his lips and Hank licks it off, shivering at the exquisite taste. The urge to lean back in and take more is far too tempting, but he has to retain a semblance of self-control. 

Well, at least he’s not entirely cut off just yet. Hank laps at the wound, allowing himself to have a few more tastes of his sire’s blood as the wound heals itself. _I feel like I should say something._ It’s probably a little awkward, what with three weeks of pent-up vampire frustration just draining out of him, but he doesn’t really know what to say. Should he thank Connor for letting him have this? Thank him for training him over the last month? There’s probably a few things he could thank Connor for, though he’s definitely not going to thank Connor for actually not pushing his influence on him to the point where he goes mindless again. That’s a basic level of decency he’s willing to work Connor up to.

 _Words are not necessary when I can feel you._ Just like how Hank can feel the amusement that’s coming from Connor, if the chuckle he heard hadn’t been enough of an indication. _I am glad that my blood can provide you with such comfort._

Connor kisses into his hairline after those words, causing Hank to sigh. He wants to go for annoyed but fails miserably. He wants to be pissed at the way Connor kisses his neck, but the happiness he feels from that act kind of ruins it. He wants to be pissed at how he can’t even be pissed right now, but then he feels far too sated and comfortable to even complain. All he can do is just to deal with what he’s got. Ugh. He can’t even say it's awful, because it really isn’t. 

Hank continues to lick at the wound at Connor’s wrist; there’s not much blood left now, and the wound is almost gone. _Didn’t realize what a difference it makes,_ he remarks, more for himself than for Connor. _It’s something else._ Vampires and blood have always been a thing, but it's only now that Hank realizes just how much of a hold that blood has on the entire species. It’s very much something to think about in the future. For now, though, he’s happy to remain where he is. 

Connor hums as Hank licks up the last of the blood on his wrist, pulling his arm away once he’s done. _Blood is the gold of the soul, silver of the will. To us, it is more than mere sustenance. It is what holds us together as well._

Those sure are fancy words, but when he boils them down to layman’s terms… _Guess you really did make me addicted to you, asshole._ Despite the words, however, the thought itself lacks bite. Hank knows that he has to accept this eventually—’this’ being the fact that he is now a vampire. Having this dependency—this bond—is a price that he has to pay for not being a mindless drone like all the other fledglings here.

 _An addiction means you cannot function without it._ Connor doesn’t stop ravishing attention to the back of his neck even as he says that, and Hank certainly can’t find it in himself to mind. Connor’s kisses feel really nice, and the feeling gets better the closer Connor gets to his bite mark. _That is not the case here._

Hank supposes he can agree with that, but… _Still. Ain’t the same._ Weirdly enough, he feels more human when he’s had Connor’s blood than not. The last few weeks he’d just been going off of instinct, ignoring the cold weight of dread in his stomach in favor of fulfilling his goal. But different beings have different instincts—and Hank knows he’s not human any more, as much as he struggles to accept it. Knowing and accepting are two very different things.

Connor doesn’t say anything else, though he does hum to show that he’s heard him. Hank supposes there’s no real point in discussing the specific semantics of this particular issue right now. If he survives through tomorrow night, they’ll definitely have the time to talk about it then.

A comfortable silence settles between them again as Hank continues to lie in bed, soaking in the warmth of Connor’s affection and touch. Connor hasn’t stopped the attention at his neck this whole time, and Hank would be kind of annoyed if it didn’t feel so nice. It's hard to be pissed at someone, even the guy who killed him, when his mouth feels so warm and comfortable.

Hank loses track of time just laying there. It’s been long enough that he starts to feel comfortable enough to drift off. Before he gets too far, however, he’s roused back up when he feels Connor shifting behind him. He pulls away from his neck to rest his head at the curve of his shoulder instead and Hank has to fight to keep down the groan of disappointment that nearly escapes him. He doesn’t really want to give Connor any ideas.

That’s not to say he doesn’t have ideas of his own when he sees Connor smiling from the corner of his vision before asking, _Is there anything else you wish for me to do?_

Well, Hank could say that he’s fine enough as he is—he’s not lying. But it's hard to not have a few ideas after all the time Connor’s spent kissing and nuzzling at his neck. He definitely wouldn’t mind, though before he lets himself ask for it Hank wants to be certain of a few things. “I… how does it work when I bite you or you bite me? Does me drinking your blood mean you’re gonna get hungry faster, or something like that?”

Connor makes an inquisitive sound when he hears that question, seemingly surprised that it’s being asked, but answers nevertheless. _More or less, yes. Our body loses the blood that is taken, and will seek to replenish it._

Yeah, that… probably should have been obvious, Hank supposes. But it's always good to make sure. On other nights it wouldn’t be an issue, but with what’s happening tomorrow… “Guess I shouldn’t let you bite me, then. I don’t wanna go in tomorrow and do something stupid just cause I’m hungry.”

Connor’s reaction to his words is almost immediate; he moans and turns to press his face up against the side of his neck. _You can always replenish it later,_ he says, and at the same time Hank feels the briefest scrape of Connor’s fangs against his skin. The sensation is so minute it might as well not even be there, yet it sends an electrifying charge through Hank, making him groan softly as he leans into Connor’s attention, the skin there already tingling. He shouldn’t, he knows he shouldn’t, but it doesn’t stop the desire he feels, the way he so desperately loves it when Connor bites and claims him. It goes against everything he fought for, but he can’t fight against this forever—especially if he wants to stay alive.

 _Yeah,_ Hank sighs out, knowing when to fold. There’s no use holding onto his pride if he’s dead. _Good point._

There’s another pleased sound from Connor, and then he starts to shift again, this time actually going to the side of his neck with his mark. Hank feels the press of lips upon the mark and shivers in response, his body already anticipating the bite. Three weeks of distance had been three weeks too long.

Considering the previous times, Hank fully expects Connor to simply bite down, but surprisingly, that doesn’t happen. All Connor does is to kiss his neck again, nuzzling at his jaw as he asks, _Can I take that as your consent?_

Hank certainly didn’t see that coming, though he’s far from mad about it. If anything, he’s actually pretty fucking glad. After the whole silent treatment thing, Hank figured Connor had been pissed at him for even explaining why he should _ask_ instead of just take. What do you know, it looks like you _can_ teach an old dog new tricks. Honestly, it's kinda sweet. 

He reaches back and runs his hand over Connor’s hair, giving him a small smile. There’s a part of him that doesn’t want to smile at his killer asking for consent to bite him, but just like it’s getting harder to hold onto his anger, that part is getting harder to listen to with each passing day. 

“Yeah,” he says it out loud so that they can both be clear on this, “I want you to bite me.”

Connor groans against his neck as soon as Hank says those words, and Hank can feel Connor’s want sharply rising. It makes him smile just a little bit more. “Been waiting all this time for me to say it, huh?” It’s definitely flattering as hell to feel all that want and desire coming off his sire, especially with the knowledge that it's for _him_. The fact that Connor wants him this badly is an incredibly heady thought.

Hank sighs as Connor continues to kiss and nuzzle at his neck a few more times before finally pulling away, then he feels Connor’s warm, firm hands grasp at his shoulders. They pull slightly, urging for him to turn, and Hank complies. He rolls over onto his back and sees Connor on all fours and hovering over him, staring down intently. 

_Hank_ , he hears Connor say, and it's impossible to not hear the weight in it. Connor wants this—wants him—and fuck if that isn’t intoxicating as hell.

Hank smiles again, then tilts his head up. He makes sure to keep eye contact with Connor as his hand reaches up to loosen his tie and drag his shirt open at the neck to fully expose his mark. He watches as Connor’s gaze instantly snaps there, shivering as Hank sees his eyes slowly lighten from brown to red.

 _Go on,_ he murmurs, urging Connor on. There’s no more need to be coy now that he’s letting Connor have what he wants. _You can have it._

Connor certainly doesn’t stand on ceremony; as soon as Hank gives the word he lowers himself down, their bodies pressed up against each other. Hank feels his skin warm up wherever he can feel Connor against him, and when Connor lowers his head to kiss his neck this time, his whole body crackles in anticipation.

 _Mine._ The word comes off Connor in a purr as his sire scrapes his fangs over the mark ever so gently. Hank moans in response, an unneeded breath escaping him as he feels those sharp fangs against the skin of his neck. What he feels here is nothing but pure desire, plain and simple. As much as he wants to avoid a mindless fuck, it’s just so hard to resist the urge to cave when just having Connor’s fangs on his neck makes him start to doubt himself.

Maybe asking for this wasn’t the best thing to do, but fuck, he wants this. He missed this. He can’t keep pretending that it’s not there, when being apart from Connor these last three weeks made him feel like he had to walk with a rock in his shoe, except all over. Now that he’s giving in, everything feels right again. _Yeah, I’m yours alright._

He feels Connor shiver in return, and the press of his fangs become that much more insistent. _Mine_ , Connor says again, and in the next moment Hank feels the sweet, sharp pain of his sire’s fangs digging into his flesh. The sensation sparks a blaze that ignites through his whole body, making him groan. Try as he might, Hank can’t deny that it feels so damn good to have Connor do this, to take what’s his. Him. His blood. His life. His First. It feels so _right_. He brings his arms around Connor and pulls him closer, keeping him pinned. Not that he thinks Connor would pull away, but this way, there’s no reason for him to. Hank wants Connor close like this. All this is too good to pass up over something like pride. 

With every drag of Connor’s tongue and sip from his fangs Hank lets out a breathy sigh, eyes going half-lidded as the pleasure of being claimed fills his senses. It feels so good to have this after all the weeks without it, and it gets even better when he feels Connor’s hand sliding in and stroking his hair, further amplifying the sense of belonging that he feels.

Hank hears himself purring as he goes pliant and boneless underneath Connor, completely blissed out by the pleasure of his sire’s bite. _Yours. I’m yours, Connor._ It’s less of a thought and more of a fact—a truth—and that makes it so much easier to say. He knows he belongs to Connor. It feels good to be his.

 _After,_ he hears Connor say after a while, still drinking from him. _After, when you have proven yourself… I want to take you. I will take you, and everyone will know that someone as strong as you belongs to no one else but me._

Hank lets out another groan. _Yeah. Yeah, that sounds really good._ He’s almost nearly gone from the pleasure he feels, but Connor has kept to his word and hasn’t shoved him off the edge. Hank definitely appreciates it, and it makes him far more agreeable to Connor’s plans for later, even if he wasn’t doped up on how good it feels to be bitten. _I’ll do it for you._

He feels more than hears the returning groan that Connor gives out, body shivering again. _I’ll mark you all over,_ Connor says, every word holding the weight of what he’s promising to Hank right now. _You’ll know nothing but the feeling of my fangs in your flesh, drinking you dry before I fill you up again with my blood. Everyone will see you, and they will smell my blood on you, and they will know that you are mine alone._

As Connor speaks, his desire and want rises sharply between them, making Hank’s own head spin at just how intense Connor’s feelings are. It shouldn’t sound as hot as it does, but it is really fucking hot. It’s all too easy to picture and it makes Hank want it as well—to be claimed and marked and everything that Connor’s just said. Maybe these feelings are the fledging in him talking, but it sounds too perfect to not say anything otherwise.

 _I want that._ It’s a struggle just to keep even the voice in his head steady, like part of him isn’t ready to just lie down here and let Connor do everything to him right now. _I want everybody to know._

 _Everyone will know._ Connor’s voice holds a certainty that makes something in Hank purr. It is reassuring to know that Connor feels this way about him, that he does actually want Hank close even after everything. That knowledge brings him comfort.

Not long after those words Connor moves to pull away from his neck. Hank whines at the loss, only placated when Connor leans back in to kiss and lap at the wound as it heals up. It’s so tempting to give himself up now, but he knows that it wouldn’t be _him._ It’d be his instincts at work, and Hank has at least enough sense to know that it wouldn’t be what he wants. 

Connor still doesn’t push him, but his desire and intent is all too evident from the way he nuzzles and kisses his neck, hands running across his body covetously. _Mine,_ he says yet again, and Hank’s body warms at the possessive tone. Maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe belonging to someone, even to Connor, could be really fucking good.

 _They’ll know. After tomorrow, they’ll know._ Whether by Connor’s fangs or his actions, they’ll get to see for themselves just what kind of fledgling Hank is. They will see him and know that only Connor could have sired him. _I’ll show ‘em._

Connor hums again his neck in response. “You will,” he murmurs the words out loud this time, then continues to press kisses upon his mark. His hands don’t stop touching Hank even through his clothes and it’s just nice, feeling all of this. Being close to Connor feels so warm and safe and good. It’s all worth it for this; or at least, it should be—Hank hasn’t felt right since he was turned. But then he hasn’t felt right for a long, long time—long before even any of this happened. 

So maybe he could do this. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, as long as he can keep the damage to a minimum. As long as he can keep feeling this good.

One of Connor’s hands moves back up to stroke his hair again, and it’s so warm and safe that it lulls him ever closer to the tempation of sleep. He knows he should probably change out of these clothes, but he’s far too comfortable to even think of moving. He just wants to stay here like this and bask in the warmth and affection of his sire.

He feels Connor smile into his skin after he presses one more kiss at his neck. Sensing Hank’s own relaxation, he nuzzles close and sighs against Hank’s neck. _Sleep,_ he intones gently, _I will still be here with you when you wake._

Hank nods minutely to show that he’s heard the words. He shifts himself to rest more comfortably against his sire, settling down with a contented sigh as his eyes slide shut. He’s sated and warm, and everything is calm. It’s only a matter of time before he falls asleep, but that’s fine. Connor’s spent the month training him, and he’s here with him tonight. It’s all he can ask for.

Tomorrow night, they will face the Council. And they will be ready for whatever comes their way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [act of demon or work of god.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1gWhtqMhPso)
> 
> Sooooo remember when I said I'd put something out in February? Yeah. tl;dr I got super sucked into KH3 (expected), got rusty with writing due to lack of consistency (somewhat expected) and then struggled a good bit with writing out the first part of my 19 Big Bang fic (unexpected) because I could only let myself come back to vampire AU after I had done that. So yeah, that's kinda what happened.
> 
> But nonetheless!! Here is finally a chapter!! Special thanks to **Jan** , as always, for being the perfect partner in crime to work with for this fic. Double thanks this time really because I was still kicking off a lot of rust while writing this chapter and Jan caught a lot of mistakes... and also made this chapter a lot better than it originally was. Thank you as always, friend. <3
> 
> Annnd if you're wondering exactly what the hell Hank is wearing, look no further than to [here](https://twitter.com/defensetrain/status/1069287164297437184?s=19)! It's a piece I commissioned from the amazing [defensetrain](https://twitter.com/defensetrain) a while back for this AU, which I have always totally meant to link here but keep forgetting each time hahaha. NOT ANYMORE. Also I have bonus (nsfw) art [here](https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/464791114424123393/554465850145505280/vampy.jpg) which I have also commissioned from the talented [roomba](https://twitter.com/cnnrfckr)! Much thanks to the both of them for doing such nice art. 'A'
> 
> (Yes I know its a lot of art, but Look. I am in a deep vampire mood after that GODDAMN PICTURE a certain somebody put up while dressed a vampire.)
> 
> Anyway uuuuh as much as I'd love to write more, I sadly have to hiatus from this fic again, this time in order to focus on the Hankcon 19 Big Bang especially since writing it is proving to be more of a challenge than anticipated. I should be back in May, however, once the bulk of that writing period has passed and I can focus on this fic once more. :D Thank you all once again for taking the time to read this fic, and even more so for commenting/kudosing/bookmarking etc. It truly means a lot to me and encourages me to keep going like you wouldn't believe. :)


	8. march of the black dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Presentation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Dubcon (no sex involved), some violence/gore, psychological torture (illusions etc.), potential disassociation, suicidal thoughts, **full on brainwashing/mind control**.
> 
> In general this chapter is going to get pretty dark at the end, so please exercise self caution upon reading his chapter. As always, feel free to skip or drop this fic if it goes beyond your comfort zone - your mental health is far more important than questionable not sexy times.
> 
> Also, wow__then on Twitter [drew something based off the previous chapter](https://twitter.com/wow__then/status/1106049249806962690)! Please do go over and send them love and support for such amazing artwork.

Nervousness is a feeling that Hank would say he is intimately familiar with. No matter how many years in your life you’ve spent hunting all manner of monsters, there is always that lingering, innate fear that the next job is where it all ends. That the next job is where you’ll finally bite off more than you can chew and probably die a horrible death. Not that that isn’t already the standard the moment one decides to take up the hunter way of life, but experiencing it is very different from simply knowing.

The point is, there have been many times in his life that Hank has felt nervous, but none of that compares to how he feels _now_ as he stares up at the building that the limousine has brought them to from the estate. Actually, calling it a ‘building’ is putting it very loosely; the architecture of the place easily reminds Hank of those Colosseum type places all the way in Greece or something. Of course, it’s not exactly the same, but it's close enough to have more than a few connotations. 

Just by looking it's easy enough to tell that this structure has to have been here for ages, but it's weird how he’s never so much as known about it until this moment. Some vampire voodoo was probably involved with that, or something similar. It’d have been something that Hank would’ve gone to think about more if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s acutely aware of what awaits him the moment he steps into that building. 

Even with how distracted he is with his staring, it's still not enough to fully tune out the familiar presence that approaches him from behind. Hank feels more than he sees or hears the figure that walks up to him, and that becomes doubly so when he feels the brush of a gloved hand down the curve of his shoulder.

“You needn’t worry so much,” comes the sure, confident voice of his sire. “Centuries have passed since the last time a Presentation has been held, and you are far stronger than any they have ever tested. You will no doubt pass with ease.”

Hank turns and gives a look. “Weren’t you the one who told me to be prepared for anything?” 

“Yes.” Connor busies himself with adjusting his gloves and cuffs as he responds, sounding just as cool and composed as he looks. “And by doing so, you are more than ready for whatever they’ll throw at you. I give it two hours, if only because they’ll drag it out with the proceedings.”

Two hours. It feels both so long and yet so short at the same time. If what Connor says really is true, then in two hours he’ll either be walking out of here alive or… who knows, really. There is no telling what the Council will try in this Presentation, what with their animosity towards Connor. His sire may be certain that they’re prepared for anything, but a lifetime of dealing with the unknown has taught Hank to always prepare for the worst. Even being a vampire doesn’t change that. He may be less vulnerable than he had been when human, but it doesn’t mean he’s invincible. Just close to it.

There’s a lot to dwell and think about, but none of that is going to help him any more now that they’re here. Hank smooths his own gloved hands down the length of his deep purple-red coat and takes in a deep breath to steel himself. He’s done whatever he can to prepare, and Connor has used the month to train him extensively to make sure of that. He may not have Connor’s confidence, but there’s no way he’s going to back down and give the Council what they want.

Hank lets out the breath from earlier and nods. “Alright, let’s do this,” he mutters to himself, then begins to walk towards the entrance of the building. Connor paces along beside him, continuing to hold himself up with every bit of the swaggered confidence that he’s been exuding since the start of this evening.

A set of oaken double doors greet them as they approach, their surfaces polished and worked to a deep luster. They swing open when Hank and Connor get close enough, and they do so with the smallest of creaks despite how old the whole structure clearly is. The same holds true after they enter and the doors swing back shut behind them. They only have to take a few more steps forward after that to encounter Niles, who is leaning against the pillar that divides the path they are on into two seperate corridors. 

Niles pushes himself off of the pillar, drawing himself to his full height and continuing to look as unimpressed as ever. “If the both of you are done posturing, the Council is almost ready to begin.” He takes a step towards the corridor closest to him and gestures at it with an arm. “Connor and I need to be at our seats, and you will need to be at the preparation chamber.”

Niles points to the other corridor at those words, clearly indicating that it is where Hank should go. Hank turns to look and the nervousness from before comes back in spades as he realizes that this is where he has to part ways with Connor. It’s not like he has any lost love for Connor, but it is an undeniable fact that Connor has more or less been his only constant in this new life he’s been thrown into. Spending an entire month with just one person is bound to create _some_ sense of attachment, never mind his instincts. Like it or not a part of him has come to rely on his sire, and this forced separation gnaws at his nerves, especially when they already had been apart for those three weeks prior. 

He stares down at the corridor for a few more moments before turning back when he feels a pair of hands clasping around one of his own. It is, of course, Connor who has reached out to him, holding Hank’s hand in both of his.

Hank looks at their joined hands for several moments before he shifts his gaze up to Connor, who smiles at him the moment their gazes meet. “There is nothing to fear. You are mine, and I will not let anyone hurt what belongs to me.”

“Pretty sure I ain’t gonna walk out of this unscathed,” Hank mutters in response. Of course, he does understand the real meaning of Connor’s words. As much as he really isn’t into being the damsel in distress, a part of him warms to the weight and promise of what his sire’s said. Knowing that Connor is there for him, and that he has his back gives him far greater comfort than he can bring himself to admit.

Connor doesn’t say anything in return, though the smile on his face widens just a bit. At the corner of his mind Hank can feel the telltale sensation that is Connor’s influence beginning to curl around him, and it's hard to not simply let himself ease into that welcoming feeling. Connor is steady where he is not, and that support is something that does help right now, especially considering the situation.

Hank doesn’t keep track of how long this whole thing happens, but the moment breaks with a cold, sharp call from Niles. “Connor.”

Connor lets out a sigh, then squeezes Hank’s hand one more time before drawing back both his hands and his influence, leaving a lingering warmth inside Hank. “I will see you later, when this is over.” _And then we will celebrate your victory with what I have promised._

The memory of that promise is fresh enough in Hank’s mind, and recalling it quickly causes heat to rise onto his face. “Get your mind outta the goddamn gutter,” he mutters once more. Trust Connor to be thinking about shit like that even at a time like this.

All Hank gets in return is a chuckle. Niles pointedly clears his throat and calls out Connor’s name one more time, causing Hank to sigh as he reaches out to nudge Connor off at the direction of his brother. If he doesn’t do this, then they’ll probably be here all night, which is something they can’t afford to do.

Connor fortunately goes with the nudge and makes his way over to where Niles is waiting for him. Niles fixes Connor with a glare that is all too easily ignored as Connor simply smiles and waves at Hank one more time. Hank returns it, then makes himself turn and walk down his designated corridor. The nervousness is still there, but the reminder of Connor’s words and the knowledge that he is around helps to keep it within controllable levels. All he has to do is to make it through this, and they’ll be in the clear. Connor’s strong, and he trained Hank to be strong, too. Whatever the Council throws at him, Hank has enough confidence to say that he’ll be able to meet it head on.

Two hours. And then this’ll be over.

* * *

“Welcome, one and all, to this very special Presentation.”

McCullen’s voice booms across the entire area as he addresses the near countless vampires that have gathered here. Hank can feel every single one of their gazes boring into him from their seats above the stage he has stepped into. From the way this place to looks to how everything has been set up so far, Hank definitely can’t help but feel a bit like one of those old time gladiators back in the past. Here he is, about to probably battle for his right to stay alive, and everyone is up there watching and treating this like it’s a damn season finale for a TV show. As if there already weren’t enough reasons why vampires are so fucked up.

“For the first time in centuries, we have a new member of this community. As you may already know, he is the First of Connor’s, one of our most exalted. Tonight we put him to the test to see if he is worthy of this prestige.”

Hank glances up to see where McCullen is addressing everyone else from as he continues to talk. It only takes a moment before Hank manages to spot him, and from there another few more seconds to see that Connor is apparently situated nearby where McCullen is. Not entirely surprising, considering Connor’s ties to the Council—and of course, the fact that this Presentation concerns him just as much as it does Hank.

“Should he succeed, he will be honored as the newest member of our kind here. If not… then we will have to ensure preservation. But that is only if he fails, and considering his bloodline, we have nothing but high hopes for the outcome.”

Hank swallows down the lump in his throat. There may be a lot of theatrics going on here, but it is a fact that right now, he’s more or less representing Connor. Not that he wants to make him proud or anything, but Connor’s kept to his word and prepared him for this. The best he can do is return that favor.

“This Presentation will be conducted in three trials, and the conditions to pass will be laid out at the beginning of each one. Surpass them all, and you will have proven yourself to the Council and everyone else here.”

McCullen looks down at him, then, silent for only a moment before he smiles placidly. “We wish you nothing but the best, and may the grace of the Disasters be upon you.”

The last part of those words cause Hank to frown. ‘Disasters’? From the way McCullen has spoken it's easy enough to infer that they’re some kind of religious or mystical thing, but that’s certainly the first he’s heard of it. He’d question it further if it wasn’t for the situation that he’s currently in.

Around the edge of the stage Hank can see a whole slew of vampires coming out from the darkness to line around the stage. He tenses up, ready to leap into action to fight if necessary. Honestly, it's hardly surprising at all that they’d do something like this. If anything Hank pretty much expects it, because what else would vampires do but fight?

“The first trial,” McCullen announces, “will be a test to see the First’s ability to distinguish between reality and fiction.” He gives Hank one more look before turning his head back up to address the crowd. “We begin… now.”

As prepared as Hank is for this whole thing, it still takes him by surprise at how _abrupt_ everything happens. In the instant right after McCullen finishes speaking Hank sees everything in his vision instantly shift. Everything that he sees shimmers and fades, dissolving to reveal… 

...well, Hank didn’t really know what he expected to see, but outdated architecture certainly isn’t one of them. Then again, considering where he is in reality, maybe it shouldn’t be that much of a surprise.

He glances around his surroundings to take proper stock of where he is. He’s still in a city, that much is certain, but it's so outdated and old-fashioned it almost feels like a joke. He feels so out of place just being here that navigating this illusion is a piece of cake.

Still, this could be part of the ploy—to goad him into a sense of overconfidence so that they can catch him unawares. Hank certainly wouldn’t put it past them to try something like that, and it certainly would make a hell lot more sense. Best to keep on his toes while he finds a way out of this place.

Hank starts to move, glancing about and keeping his senses on high alert as he navigates his way through this illusion. It’s so quiet that he can hear the sound of his own footsteps, and the silence is thick enough that Hank can feel it weighing down on his shoulders. It’s hard to say if it's better or worse that there’s nobody projected in this here. Connor hasn’t really done many illusions on him since that one time, but even compared to what he’s done then to what his experiencing now, the difference in complexity is pretty clear to see.

_Still might be a trap,_ Hank reminds himself again before he gets too deep into comparing his current situation against his experience with Connor. Being too complacent never ends well. That’s how he’s managed to get the better of most vampires when he had been hunting them as a human, and hell can freeze over before he lets the same happen to him.

But as he continues on and nothing jumps at him, Hank feels the tension inside of him easing up. He’s still wary, but the nervousness he feels isn’t as bad as it’d been when this whole thing had first begun. He’s walked around enough to get a good idea about the layout of this whole thing, so all that’s left is to find his target.

And so search he does. Hank combs through the buildings, attempting to find whatever it is that will take him out of this. He does it as thoroughly as possible in the first few buildings he steps in, but eventually tunes his senses so that it works more like a radar that can ping back to him if there’s anything that feels out of place. That’s one of the many things that Connor’s taught him in the past month, and right now it's definitely coming in handy. 

With that ability Hank goes through the buildings much more quickly, and soon enough he manages to pinpoint an anomaly at the tallest building in the whole area. He double checks to make sure that it is indeed the only signal that he’s getting back, then quickly makes his way over to it.

Just like with this rest of this place, the building itself is also empty when Hank steps in. He holds his breath when he crosses the threshold, waiting to react to some sort of potential trap or the like to burst out and get him… but once again nothing happens. In fact, there’s nothing at all inside the building, save for what looks like the longest flight of stairs that spiral up to the top, marked by the shadow of what looks like a circular platform.

Hank glances around to see if there’s any other way, but from what he can tell all that is available is the flight of stairs. He lets out a breath once he’s confirmed it, tilting his head up to look at the platform from the bottom. 

“Nowhere to go but up,” he mutters to himself, turning his gaze back downwards and looks over to where the stairs begin. Right from the very first step the entire thing had been built against the wall, and whoever designed these stairs seemed to think that having the steps extrude from the wall is good enough to support the entire structure. While Hank would by no means call himself an expert in the fields of architecture, even he can kind of guess that just relying on the walls to support something as massive as this may not be the best idea. Or maybe it’s not as bad as he thinks. Who knows, really. Only one way to find out. 

Hank walks over to the start of the stairs, giving it one more cursory look before he plants his foot on the first step. Again he holds his breath to see if anything happens… but just like before, there is nothing. Christ, either this is the most elaborate hoax, or they really don’t give a shit about this. Or maybe…

He can think about that later. Right now the path to the top is clear, and as uneasy as he might feel over how simple this trial is, he nevertheless has to proceed. Hank takes another breath puts his other foot onto the next step, pausing again to wait for any kind of reaction… nothing. He continues on as such until he’s almost fully convinced that there’s nothing that’s going to happen. Almost, because there’s no way he’s going to let his guard down entirely.

The climb up is long and arduous, yet Hank doesn’t feel himself tire at any step of the way. It's hard to say if it's because he’s a vampire or because he knows that all of this is in his head; either way, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is for him to get to the very top of these stairs and get this goddamn trial over and done with. The sooner he can finish this up, the better. Just the idea of having to entertain the Council and all the other people watching for any second longer than he has to infuriates him.

For better or for worse, absolutely nothing happens, not even as he climbs the final few steps to the very top. Hank chances a glance downwards to see exactly how high he is from the ground and the sense of vertigo that passes through him upon doing so is dizzying. Never mind the fact that no human would have been able to survive the fall down; the mere thought of having to come all the way up here as a human is enough for his mind to boggle over. Even though this is in his head, being able to really _see_ just how much more a vampire can do compared to a human is just… utterly ridiculous. It’s absolutely insane. Just this is more than enough to hammer home how vastly outclassed the two species are.

If you ask Hank, it’s a downright terrifying thought. Hank mutters a few choice words under his breath and wrenches his gaze back up to look at what he’d come all the way up here for. Right there, set on a pedestal that’s on the very center of the platform, is a sphere. A sphere that is covered with a constantly oozing out blood and ichor from… somewhere. It’s impossible to tell. But it definitely looks very important and totally set up to be taken away and Hank briefly wonders when he’d stepped into a set of an Indiana Jones film. That right there is a McGuffin if he’s ever seen one.

Then again, pomp and circumstance is pretty much the standard M.O at this point. Hank sighs and takes those last few steps so that he’s within arm’s reach of the pedestal and the sphere that it holds. The moment he’s close enough Hank reaches out and grabs the sphere, just barely able to keep his face straight as the blood and ichor begins to ooze over his hand. Even if this is fake, he’s still gonna want to thoroughly clean his hand after this.

With the sphere in his hand Hank takes a second to wonder on what his next step should be, then recalls from his training with Connor on what said step is. That would be to destroy the source of the illusion. Certainly doable, especially compared to the stuff Connor’s put him through. 

The fact that the sphere is, well, more or less just a creepy sphere helps a lot too. Hank shifts his grip on the sphere, just enough so that he can further tighten his grip on it and exert all the strength that he needs to muster. It doesn’t take long before he hears the first ear-splitting _CRACK_ , and the sound echoes through the room, followed by several more in quick succession as more cracks run through the sphere, further distorting the flow of blood and ichor over its surface.

“If I come all the way up here for fucking nothing I’m gonna be—fucking—pissed—” With a hiss Hank exerts even more pressure, and that last bit is all that he needs for the sphere to shatter fully. The force causes everything to fly out, and with Hank being so close to the epicenter most of it lands on him. Hank grimaces as he feels the blood and ichor splattering heavily over his clothes as well as on his face. 

Logically, as the stuff is more or less blood it should’ve smelled… not unpleasant, but he definitely was not expecting the rancid stench that suddenly assault his sense of smell. Hank chokes in surprise and hasily uses his free hand to wipe it off his face, an attempt that mostly succeeds. Was the point of this challenge to tempt him or something?

“Jesus christ,” he mutters as he moves his hands to try and wipe his hands clean against the heavy fabric of his coat. This attempt, unfortunately, does not succeed as well, and Hank grimances again as he comes to realize this. Now he needs to give himself a full body scrub after this is over, if he ever wants to feel clean again. 

_“And we see that Connor’s First has managed to accomplish the task set before him.”_ McCullen’s voice suddenly booms out from nowhere, causing Hank to jerk his head upwards in surprise. Despite having already broken the sphere the illusion hasn’t been lifted, and that gives him a cause for concern. Either this is some sort of trick, or…

There’s no time to consider it, though, as McCullen’s voice echoes through the building again. _“We move onto the second trial, where again he will have to prove himself strong in mind, even up against the most convincing of distractions. We begin this… now.”_

Just like before the shift is immediate; one moment he’s standing at the very top of a tall building on a platform, and the next that very same platform is gone. With nothing to support him Hank begins to plummet towards the ground that’s rapidly rushing in. It all happens so abruptly that there’s no time to even _feel_ scared; the floor gets closer, closer, _closer_ —

Then suddenly he’s no longer falling, and the floor that he’d been coming up to is now a wall at the other end of the room, a wall that he is can no longer get to because he’s chained up with silver shackles around his wrist and ankles. His feet are safe since he’s got boots on, but the same can’t be said for his wrists. Hank grits his teeth as he feels the silver starting to burn against his skin with a vicious hiss.

With his teeth still clenched, Hank looks at his surroundings and sees that pretty much everything has changed. Instead of the building, he’s now what seems to be a cell that is just large enough to hold him and little else. He’s surrounded on all sides by brick walls and with no windows. If it wasn’t for the fact that he can see in the dark, he’d be completely blind. 

The shackles continue to sear into his skin. They definitely hurt like hell, although with the life he’s led in the past it's easy enough to compartmentalize and keep himself focused on the task at hand. Just what exactly is he supposed to do here? It certainly doesn’t seem like there’s a way to get out of this room… but it's hard to be certain, what with the whole illusion angle. Is he supposed to try and figure a way to break free, then? That, at least, feels a lot more plausible.

Whatever the case, Hank certainly has no intention of just lying down here and let the Council of Assholes do their thing on him. Hank begins to yank against one of the shackles that bind his wrists, biting down the inside of his cheek to keep himself from making any sound as the pressure forces the sliver to dig even harder into him. Fuck, it's like jamming your bare skin against the world’s hottest iron. He knows he has to do it, but it definitely doesn’t make it any better.

He continues to pull as hard as he can, gritting his teeth and bearing the pain as it goes from beyond his wrist and engulfs the entire length of his arm. The scent of his own blood slowly enters the air as he feels it ooze and slide down his skin from the burns and abrasions that had come from a result of his struggling.

Hank is entirely focused on getting out that he only barely notices that McCullen is speaking again. He doesn’t stop to listen, either. He can fuck off as far as Hank is concerned. Hank simply continues to pull and tug with his wrist, grimacing even more as the pain intensifies. He knows he’s close, he has to be. Just a bit more, and—

A new wave of pain forces Hank to pause. Said pain stems from his back, and it only takes a moment for Hank to realize the prickling sensation from behind are from actual fucking needles. Silver as well, no doubt, and judging by the scalding pain working it's way from inside him, they probably injected some right into him as well. Jesus fucking christ.

With his back compromised too it's harder than before to keep his focus, but Hank has never been one to give up, especially when the odds are against him. He wasn’t called Fucking Tenacious Hank when he was a hunter for nothing. He grits his teeth one more time and forces his arm to _move_ and _pull_. The scent of his own blood is thick in the air now, and by this point he’s lost enough blood to start igniting his desire to feed. Hank can feel his fangs aching to extend but he tempers it down, reminding himself of the facts. This is all in his head; he has to stay focused, to just keep doing this, and soon enough—

Almost as if on cue, the chain that Hank had been fighting against all this time finally gives in. The same ear-splitting _CRACK_ from before echoes violently through the room, and the silver shatters into pieces. The pain on his wrist and arm finally eases up, giving Hank the moment he needs to recover and recollect himself from all the agony he’s had to withstand.

He doesn’t let himself rest for long, however—not when there’s still his other wrist to deal with. Once he’s gotten his breath back Hank reaches over to deal with the other shackle. His palms begin to sting the moment he makes contact with the silver, but just like before he doesn’t let it stop him. Instead Hank growls and further tightens his hold around the shackle, ignoring how the scent of his blood thickens even more. Torture, even as painful as it is, is hardly the worst thing he’s had to deal with.

With the amount of strength he’s mustered up, it doesn’t take very long at all for the other shackle to break. There’s no ear-splitting crack this time, but Hank can feel the metal crumpling under the strength of his grip. He squeezes as hard as he can, crunching the metal until it's structurally weak enough for him to yank it right off his other wrist.

Hank barely hears the clink of silver as it lands on the floor, his mind already shifting to focus on the last part of what he has to do to get out. With both of his wrists freed all that’s left are his ankles, and those are far easier to deal with. His palm still stings but it doesn’t stop Hank from bracing both of his hands against the wall (at a spot with no needles, obviously), keeping him steady as he starts to kick in order to loosen up the shackles at his feet. 

To his surprise, they come off all too easily—just a few strong tugs is all that he needs for them to break off from the wall entirely. Of course, that means they’re still actually on his ankles, but since he’s still got his boots on it's not that much of an issue. Hank quickly deals with the other foot once the first is freed, and the moment that comes off too Hank is more than happy to shove himself away from the wall and plant himself back on solid ground. 

Hank takes a moment to steady himself, and then looks at his surroundings once again, only to see it begin to shimmer. His vision warps and shift, the walls and everything else vanishing to reveal the familiar sights of the stage. All the pain and aches in his body up and vanish as well, and it simply feels like none of it had ever existed in the first place.

”Not even half an hour has passed and you have already passed the first two trials.” Hank snaps his gaze up over to where McCullen is. He’s still standing in the same place as before, continuing to look down at Hank with that inscrutable smile of his. _“A most remarkable feat. There is little doubt to the blood that flows in your veins now.”_ He turns his gaze back up to the rest of the vampires. ”Please, give him a round of applause for his efforts thus far.”

The applause comes, almost like it was on command, and Hank can’t quite stop himself from sneering at the frivolous display. “This really all you’ve got?” Those two trials, for all that had happened, were more or less pretty direct. The first one just involved him finding something without anything else to get in his way, while the other was basically a test of endurance. He had no doubt that even the most mindless of fledglings would’ve been able to accomplish them with little effort. He could even dare to say that these trials were designed more of _them_ rather than him.

McCullen’s smile doesn’t falter even at those words. “There is still the final trial. Pass that, and your position as your sire’s First will be secured. We expect great things from you.”

There’s definitely something about that smile and his mannerisms that sets Hank on edge. It’s pretty damn clear that he’s got something up his sleeve, but _what_ that something might be is something Hank can’t guess, if only because there’s just so many things people like him could do. The only thing he can do right now is to be on his toes and be ready to face whatever underhanded bullshit that’s going to come his way.

* * *

The final trial, as it turns out, is a tournament of sorts against the fledglings belonging to other vampires. Hank had been given a few minutes to rest and catch his breath as they prepared to set their shit up, which had been pretty surprising considering the fact that Hank is more used to a lack of generosity. If anything, this abrupt change only makes him more suspicious about whatever is going to come.

But now as he stands five battles in, it's definitely getting harder to keep his suspicion up. The fights weren’t exactly a pushover like the first two trials had been, but it had been far too easy to feel the differences in their power and abilities when he went up against each one of them. Maybe if they’d had free will the other fledglings would’ve realized they were outmatched. Maybe that advantage stems from his previous experience when he had been human, but that still doesn’t account for the clear disparity between them and him. 

It almost feels like he was never meant to be this strong. Does free will truly make that big of a difference, or is it because Connor is really that much of a freak compared to the rest of the vampires? It’s hard to say what the answer is… and Hank isn’t sure if he _wants_ to know it in the first place. Either of those options comes with a bunch of thoughts and worries that he doesn’t want to go near anytime soon.

For now, he keeps his focus on finishing up this whole Presentation business. Hank stares down at the fifth fledgling that he’s defeated, wondering just how many more rounds of this he’s going to have to go through. He’s managed to keep himself from killing any of his opponents thus far, but his blood is beginning to run hot from all the fighting that he’s been doing. He’d been active enough that his tie and suit are a bit askew; while he could fix it, he can also sense Connor’s simmering approval all the way from his seat and that’s enough encouragement for him to keep it like this. Sure, maybe he’s showing off a little because he’s the only monster here who isn’t brainwashed, but who cares, right? He’s here to show the Council who’s the boss and they can fucking suck it. At the rate they’re going, Hank is pretty confident that he can do this all fucking night.

“It seems like our participant has already managed to go through almost all of his opponents.” McCullen’s voice remains cool and collected, still entirely unaffected even though Hank is pretty sure the Council is almost out of cards to play. There’s almost nothing else they can do at this point to trip him up. “And so now, we bring forth his final challenge. One final match, to see if he is truly worthy of where he stands.”

The door to the stage slowly begins to open up, just like with all his previous opponents. It’s definitely a little bit surprising that it’s already the last one so soon, but he isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Hank gets into a fighting stance and readies his knives with a smirk, eager to face whatever this final challenge is. He’s made it all the way here with little difficulty—how bad could this last fight be?

“This final round is where we put our participant to the ultimate test.” The smugness in McCullen’s voice irks him like hell, but Hank doesn’t let it get to him. Soon enough he’ll show that asshole just how wrong he is. “And so we present, as a final challenge, one of our most persistent enemies… a hunter.”

A hunter—Hank’s eyes widen the moment his mind fully processes what’s just been said. They couldn’t have, they _didn’t_ —

The door finishes opening fully, and from the shadows steps out a hunter, just as McCullen has said. It’s like watching his worst nightmare come to life; a hunter standing right before himself, ready to take him out. He, who has become everything that hunters dread. 

Or, perhaps… Hank narrows his eyes, sharpening his gaze so as to study his opponent better. The hunter _is_ human, that much is certain, but from the way they stand and the look in their eyes… Hank snarls and curses under his breath. He’s seen the classic signs of enthrallment to know when it's happening, and it's definitely going on right now. On one hand, that means this hunter wouldn’t be able to recognize him. But on the other hand…

Hank glares up at McCullen and his ilk, baring his fangs at them as the anger burns through him. “ _No,_ ” he growls out, wanting to make his position clear. He won’t kill. He won’t kill a _human_ for this whole fucking thing. For fucking _sport._ The fact that they’d turn somebody for _this_ sickens him. It just proves humans are just toys to them. There really is no boundary that these assholes won’t cross.

He knows that McCullen must have heard him, yet the older vampire doesn’t deign to respond to him. Instead the enthralled hunter raises up the crossbow in their hands and begins firing at him. Hank dodges the (silver-tipped) arrows flying towards him with ease, shifting himself to get behind the hunter and reaches out in an attempt to disarm them.

“Stop this!” Hank knows that the attempt is futile, but he owes it to them to try. There’s no way he can just pretend this isn’t happening when it's right before his eyes. He makes sure not to use too much strength so that he doesn’t hurt the hunter, but obviously the same doesn’t hold true. Especially not when they’re currently made to obey the commands given to them.

The hunter struggles violently, and Hank is forced to let go before said struggle ends up hurting them. The moment he does so the hunter takes the opportunity to strike, turning around and swinging the crossbow in their hands towards him. Hank dodges those attacks with relative ease as well, cursing as he steps back, putting distance between him and his opponent. What kind of fucking joke is this? There is no way he’s going to play by their rules and kill somebody. 

Somewhere at the back of his mind Hank feels a violent bubbling of anger, an outburst of emotion that isn’t his own. It takes a moment for Hank to realize that the anger is actually coming from _Connor_. He really must be mad if Hank can even feel it like this, and in a way he appreciates it a little—to know that at least Connor is pissed about it on his behalf. And it tells him too that Connor had no part of this bullshit that the Council’s pulled. Hank would probably be a lot more pissed if that’d be the case.

If he could Hank would’ve tried to take a moment to somehow show Connor his appreciation, but there are far more pressing matters at hand. The hunter drops the crossbow in their hand and makes a blind charge towards him. From the corner of his vision Hank sees the glint of silver in their hands, prompting him to dodge once again. He gets out of the way just moments before the blade of the hunter’s silver dagger strikes the space where he’d been, and the hunter lets out a snarl of frustration upon realizing that they’ve missed their mark.

Hank puts distance between them again and raises his hands to try and show the hunter that he means no harm. “Stop, I don’t want to hurt y—” He’s cut off when the hunter springs towards him again, knowing nothing else but the command to take him out. Hank avoids the attack once more, but this time stays close as he tries to disarm the hunter again. He continues to avoid their attacks, and when the first chance comes Hank immediately jumps for it. He lunges forward, trying to surprise the hunter and make them hesitate. 

He should’ve known better, especially considering his own experiences. With how deep the enthrallment goes the hunter doesn’t even so much as flinch at his approach; all they do is to make use of the opportunity to strike, and this time the attack hits true. Hank winces as he feels the dagger plunge into his arm, the silver making his skin and blood boil with pain.

The hunter keeps their hold on the blade even after they’ve struck, tightening their grip and attempting to push the blade deeper into his arm. Hank grits his teeth as the pain intensifies further, and he can feel the temptation to just lash out and crush whoever is hurting him. It’s the last thing he can allow to happen. 

“Fucking— _stop!_ ” With a snarl Hank uses uninjured arm to reach up and shove the hunter away from him. Due to the pain distracting him Hank is unable to keep the usual tight leash around his strength, and so the hunter flies back with much more force than he’d intended. They fly all the way across the stage and slam onto the opposite wall, instantly crumpling down onto the ground. 

Hank feels his blood running cold when he sees that happen, his mind quickly swarming with a million and one things about just how badly he had fucked up. Swearing a whole string of curses, Hank quickly pulls out the dagger lodged in his arm and throws it aside, only giving himself a moment to ensure that his arm is still intact before hurrying over to the hunter to make sure they’re okay. He doesn’t know them, but all that matters is that they’re human and an unwilling victim. They haven’t done anything to deserve being used like this. If they end up dead because of this, Hank would never be able to forgive himself. 

He gets to where the hunter has fallen and kneels down, eyes and hands frantic as he begins to check them for injuries. He can’t really smell any blood besides his own so at least it doesn’t seem too bad, but internal bleeding is always a thing. Maybe he should just—

As Hank begins to form that particular train of thought the hunter’s eyes snap open, and before Hank can do anything they pull out another knife and plunge it right into his throat. Hank can feel the way the blade burns as it lodges right through his windpipe and gullet, clogging up everything there and making him choke. He cringes and stumbles back, the pain so intense that it causes him to lose his footing and fall onto the floor on his back. The impact makes the knife lodge in even deeper, sending a new wave of pain through him. Fuck, it hurts. It hurts so much.

Hank tries to roll onto his side but the pain is far too much for him to be able to focus on anything else. Over the sound of his own choking he can hear the footsteps of the hunter as they approach him, further increasing his urgency to _move_. He needs to—he needs to get up, because if he doesn’t the hunter is gonna march right up to him and…

The footsteps come to a stop. Hank doesn’t need to shift his gaze to know that the hunter looms above him, probably with one more of those silver knives. It’d be all too easy for them to just bring that blade down right into his heart, and no matter how powerful a vampire is, a strike to the heart with such a weapon is the most surefire way to kill them. In other situations Hank might have welcomed it, but this isn’t the time or place for him to die. He doesn’t want to prove those assholes right—and more importantly, he doesn’t want to disappoint Connor.

Hank hears the hiss of air as the hunter brings down their blade. Knowing that he can’t dodge it Hank reaches up instead, trying to catch it instead as it comes towards him—

“Stop this. **_Stop this!_** ”

If the voice wasn’t enough to inform him, then the surge of power that comes right after those snarled words is more than enough to tell Hank exactly who is expressing their displeasure. He feels Connor’s power running over him like a tidal wave, leaving him light headed. It’s only the loud _thump_ of a body falling next to him that brings him back to reality, and Hank turns to see the hunter now collapsed onto the ground in a careless heap, like a puppet with its strings cut off.

Part of him is, of course, relieved that this seems to be over, but the danger isn’t quite over yet. Hank slowly pushes himself to sit up, coughing and spluttering around the knife still stuck in his throat. His neck continues to burn with unspeakable pain; there’d be no way he would have still been able to move at all, if he had an injury like this as a human.

That reminder is enough for Hank to force himself up and to focus enough through the pain in order to try and give the unconscious hunter a once over. Still, there’s not much he can make certain of given his own current condition, so Hank is forced to go with the next best thing. He reaches out in his mind for the line he has to Connor, directing a single question towards his sire. _Did you kill him?_

For a while, all Hank gets back in return is silence. It stretches on long enough that Hank almost thinks that he didn’t manage to get through to Connor at all, but before he can try again Connor’s voice echoes in his mind. _It doesn’t matter. He hurt you._

_Wasn’t his fault. We both know that._ It’s just a little bit easier to gather his thoughts now. His throat still hurts like hell, but hearing Connor’s voice had given him the briefest of reprieves from it—at least, just enough for him to focus where necessary.

It does nothing to reverse the damage already done to him, though. Hank coughs, spitting up blood only to choke on it when it lodges in his throat due to the knife still there. He’s going to pass out if he doesn’t pull it out, but then he’ll just end up bleeding even more if he _does_ take it out, which doesn’t make things any better. Besides, it's not just his blood that he’s losing—the blood inside of him is Connor’s, too. He shouldn’t have to lose it all over a wound like this. It just isn’t right.

He looks over to the hunter again, blinking when he sees that they’re still unconscious. The fight isn’t over yet, that much is obvious, so what’s with the sudden pause? Did Connor interrupting somehow mean that he had failed? If so, then this is the worst bullshit that he’s had to deal with. He has half a mind to go right up to the Council and tell them fully what he thought about this crap they’ve pulled.

Breathing heavily, Hank slowly turns to look up where Connor is to see if he’s got any opinions, only to see that his sire is looking at McCullen and—from what he can tell—is conversing with him, too. And it's not just McCullen; the other Council members are chiming in as well. Hank is in too much pain to be able to focus any of his sense to try and make out what they’re talking about, but he can feel Connor’s stormy disapproval from the other end of the line. Whatever it is, it must not be good.

Hank takes his chances and tries to prod Connor for questions. _What’re they… what’re they talking about? Am I gonna fail because of this bullshit?_ It sure as hell wouldn’t be fair, but it wouldn’t exactly be surprising. Now that they’ve shown just how underhanded they intend to be Hank has no doubt that the Council will use this as an excuse to do whatever they want. Those assholes. How dare they just… treat Connor like this? It’s so fucking aggravating.

The fact that Connor continues to be silent through their connection doesn’t make things any better, either. Hank knows that Connor is occupied with talking to the others, but he’s always made room to reply when Hank calls for him thus far. Whatever the conversation is about, it clearly must be important enough to have Connor give it his full attention.

He continues to watch the body language and movement of Connor and the Council to try and figure out what’s going to happen next. Connor’s body is tense as he converses with McCullen and the others; said vampires, in turn, seem to be far more relaxed. They’re bargaining with an advantage, then, which only means that the opposite holds true for Connor. Not a good sign at all.

The talking goes on for a while more before Connor suddenly stands up from his seat, causing Niles (who’d been beside him) to react in apparent surprise. That’s the first time Hank has seen Niles lose his cool in anyway, and it's not hard to feel concern about that. Whatever is happening up there, it's most likely something not great.

Unfortunately there’s no time for Hank to wonder more about that, because now Connor has walked over to the edge, somehow looking like he’s ready to jump down into the stage itself. Hank coughs and straightens up at the possibility of that happening, the concern he’d been harbouring swelling up inside of him. Was Connor coming down to personally tell him that he’d failed? Did the Council put him up to that? Just what exactly is going to happen?

Connor jumps off. The moment he’s in the air a swarm of shadows rise up from the ground, solidifying underneath his feet to give Connor a stable platform to land upon, which he does so with ease, then stays still until he’s brought all the way down to where Hank is.

The moment the platform makes contact with the ground Connor steps off from it, causing the shadows to disperse like a wave. But Hank can see them slowly forming back around his feet, slithering after him on the ground as Connor slowly approaches where Hank is still sitting.

_**Stand up.**_ Hank can feel the compulsion of that command slamming into him, the raw power of it that forces him to act. He slowly gets up on shaky legs, struggling to keep himself steady even through the pain that still wracks his body. Connor continues to approach him, and now that Hank can finally see his face he can also see that Connor is _pissed_.

Definitely not a good sign at all. Hank takes a quick moment to double check on the hunter to make sure they’re still okay, then moves to address whatever’s happening now. _What’s this, Connor?_ He doesn’t know exactly what it is that Connor has talked about with the Council, but he can’t imagine Connor coming down here being good news. Especially not with that kind of look on his face. If they wanted to do something to the hunter… it sucks, but Hank can’t just let it happen if that’s the case. He isn’t the kind of guy to just lie down and not do anything when somebody else needs help.

Steeling himself, Hank reaches up for the dagger still embedded into his neck and pulls it out with a wince. Blood flows out from the wound and stains his entire front, in addition to the blood that already coats his hands and neck. Hank doesn’t let that stop him though, sliding the grip of the dagger in his hands until he can hold it firmly. He doesn’t need to look at himself to know how much of a mess he is now, and the continued blood loss doesn’t make things any better. The wound at his neck isn’t going to start healing for a while, which sucks a lot, but at least he’s undead so it won’t affect him as much as it could’ve. _Can’t bleed out if you’re not alive._

To his surprise, Connor comes to a stop the moment Hank has the dagger in his hand. Hank blinks at the sudden shift, not sure what to make of it, but for better or for worse he doesn’t have wait long to find out what’s going on because McCullen’s voice soon booms overhead, addressing the audience once more.

“A new final trial,” he announces, with a particular tilt in his voice that has the dread inside of Hank solidify even more. “Our participant will be pitted for five minutes against his sire.”

Hank’s eyes go wide upon hearing those words. Did he hear that right? Were they fucking serious? _What the fu—_

“Should he make it through, then our participant will have succeeded in proving himself.” McCullen looks down upon him again, and this time there’s no way Hank can’t not notice the triumphant smile that is blatantly on the other vampire’s face. “Those five minutes begin… now.”

The moment McCullen gives the signal to begin Connor immediately springs into action. He lunges forward, making a beeline right towards Hank, who swears as he dodges the strike Connor’s thrown his way. He can tell from Connor’s body language that this isn’t a joke—Connor _does_ indeed intend to fight him. 

Hank tries to regain his footing after that dodge, but is forced to dodge another blow from Connor. Fuck, this is a whole new mess he’s been thrown into. While he’s obviously different compared to the last time he faced Connor in battle, the difference between the both of them is still like night and day. The month spent honing his skills might have allowed Hank to be able to keep up with Connor now, that’s still a far cry from being able to face him one-on-one. And with his injuries, the disparity is even worse.

God, this is just pure fucking bullshit. Hank works on keeping his distance, knowing full well just how outmatched he is. His neck still burns from the wound that’s there and it takes more effort than usual to keep his limbs coordinated as the continued blood loss weighs him down. He’s never going to get anywhere with just a dagger, too. His best bet would be to loot the hunter for other weapons to use, but doing so risks putting them in danger—having lost this much blood, Hank knows full well that he could end up giving into his instincts to bite the hunter instead, in order to replenish himself.

“Fuck.” The word gurgles out from the back of his ruined throat, the sound garbled and sick. He doesn’t want to bite the hunter, but he knows he has to heal if he wants to even have the slightest chance to get through this. There’s no way he’s going to make it through all five minutes in the state he is now.

Still, he has to figure out _something_. With how intent Connor is in going after him Hank hardly has a moment’s reprieve to think. Connor chases him every time he tries to put distance between them, attempting a strike the instant he’s close enough. It’s only because of their training that allows Hank to see the tells of Connor’s attacks before they come, giving him just enough information to avoid them. It’s just barely enough however, and as much as Hank wants to say he’s defending himself successfully, the more accurate thing to say would that he’s _running_ away successfully. It feels a lot like he’s playing the world’s most dangerous game of cat and mouse, with him being hunted by the most fearsome predator of all. God, this is so fucking messed up.

Hank continues to keep his his meagre defence (or rather, ‘defence’), simply trying to focus his efforts on being as far away from Connor as possible. He holds up his free hand to his neck, trying to will it to heal faster but to not much success. His hand comes back soaked in dark red, and the effort only makes the blood loss even more palpable, looping into his hunger and forcing him ever closer towards starved desperation. If he goes to the hunter, he can…

He stops that train of thought before he can get any further in. No, he has to keep his head about him or he’ll really die here. He may not be healing as quickly as he’d hoped, but he is still healing, despite how slow it is. Eventually it’ll heal enough for it to be less of an issue. He just needs to hold out for long enough, and then he’ll be able to rest and feed and figure out the full story behind this thing. Right now, all he needs to focus on is to survive and not let Connor kill him. 

For a while it seems like his strategy of putting distance between them seems to be working out, but then at the next stretch of distance that Hank attempts to make Connor suddenly moves and intercepts him halfway. Hank only has a moment to see the utterly blank expression that Connor has on his face before he swings his arm forward, bringing forth a swirl of shadows shoot out from the sleeves of his coat and flies right towards him. Hank curses and just barely manages to avoid the attack, only to have another wave of those shadows coming at him, and this time he’s forced to draw his arms up so as to block the brunt of the attack.

_Fuck_ , he curses inwardly at himself once more. It's not that hard to guess how Connor could’ve intercepted him like that—Hank is a _part_ of him. It’d be child’s play for Connor to feel his thoughts and read his movements. He’s entirely outclassed in more ways than one; it’d be a miracle at this point if he can survive the first minute, let alone five.

Just as the first wave of attacks die down the second comes right after, forcing Hank to keep his arms up. _Connor…_ he tries to reach out through their link, to somehow attempt to reason with him, but Connor’s closed himself off to him. All he can feel is something that vaguely feels like frustration, though he can’t be certain. Still, this fight is nothing like the one they had back in their first meeting. Back then Connor had taken him down in a matter of seconds, but even then Hank had refused to give up to the bitter end. He sure as hell isn’t going to give up _now_ , either, as outmatched as he is. It might be impossible, but he’s always had to fight against impossible odds. This time is no different.

Hank takes a labored breath and lowers his arms, quickly leaping out of the way the moment he’s in position to move. Not having defended himself means he takes a few grazes, but that’s fine. Hank focuses on keeping up his speed and distance as Connor goes around and starts firing at him over and over again with those shadows of his. Hank tries to move as fast as he can—faster than how he used to be now, with his new powers—and while he does avoid the worst of Connor’s attacks, most of them manage to _just_ hit him. If it were just a couple of them it would have been fine, but Connor doesn’t relent and so all the little scratches and nicks pile up instead. They feed into his blood loss, further fueling the need to replenish himself so that he can heal. But with the way things are going, it's clear that he isn’t going to have that chance.

As he darts to avoid the last string of attacks, Hank suddenly hears the sound of something whistling through the air from behind him. He dodges it just in time once again, and he snaps his gaze to see the flash of silver as it wizzes past him. It’s one of those silver knives, and last he checked Connor doesn’t carry one of those on his personage, so that can only mean one thing. Connor has probably taken possession of the hunter with his shadows and looted them of their weapons, which means going to them won’t even be of much help now—if he can even go near in the first place. Hank knows just how vicious Connor’s shadows can be, now he’s got a damn puppet on his side. Fuck, this is not looking good at all.

It certainly doesn’t get any better either when Connor springs forward to lunge at him again. Once more Hank moves to dodge, and when he does so he sees something else moving from the corner of his eye. He turns around, and his eyes widen in surprise when he sees that the something turns out to be the hunter’s unconscious body. Connor must have used his shadows to just throw the body at him, which, if he has to admit, is one of the last things he had expected Connor to do.

He may be bleeding and desperate, but Hank can’t think of anything else but to catch the hunter as they fly towards him. The collision, when it comes, rattles him a little, and Hank grunts, stumbling back from the force and weight of the hunter as he holds them in his arms. During their altercation earlier Hank had made sure not to hurt the hunter, but after being tossed and knocked around by Connor there’s no way they would have still be uninjured. Hank can smell the faint scent of blood that’s coming off from their wounds and it smells… 

…it smells so _good_. Not good in the same way that Connor’s blood does, of course, but still good enough that his mouth begins to water as his teeth ache with the urge to bite down and feed. He’s lost a lot of blood, after all. Surely taking just a bite wouldn’t be so bad, would it? All he has to do is to lean down and—

_No._

Hank stops himself before he can continue that thought, growling low in his gashed-up throat. He can feel the burn of the wound that’s still there as he does that, which is all the reminder that he needs to keep his head together. He can’t do that, especially not when he’s lost this much blood. He knows he needs to replenish himself but he doesn’t trust himself to be able to do it properly. If he bit the hunter now, he’d most likely kill them. It’s not worth it at all. It can’t be… no matter how hungry he is. No matter how much he wants it. He can’t…

God, but he’s so _hungry_.

Hank feels himself trembling as he struggles to fight against his instincts, the rising tide of _need_ that threatens to blanket his higher faculties. His chest hitches as he struggles to keep himself together. He doesn’t know how much longer it is until the five minutes are up, but he just has to last until then. Just five minutes, and then this nightmare will be over—

He hears the whistling of something flying towards him once again, and Hank ducks just in time to see another knife going over where his head would have been. It doesn’t stop there, however; soon after that first attack Hank hears a variety of many other things flying in his direction. Connor is on the move again, this time using his shadows to pick up all the weapons that’ve been littered across the floor from his previous fights and throwing them all at him. He can see knives, daggers, swords… a javelin—even a morningstar that he remembers being used by one particularly bulky fledgling.

_Oh, for fuck’s sake—_ There’s no way he can dodge all of this completely, but it's that or risk hurting an innocent third party. Well, maybe not fully innocent, but certainly not deserving of any of this bullshit. Hank shifts to hold the hunter to his chest and starts to dodge, but holding them so close to him now only makes the temptation to feed even harder to resist. 

He stops after the last weapon is thrown, biting the inside of his cheek with one half-extended fang, using the pain to ground him. _Stop this. Stop it, goddamnit._ If anything, at least the hunter needs to be put somewhere safe. Keeping them like this isn’t going to end well.

Connor slowly turns to face him. _If you don’t drink, you are going to die,_ he says, voice as blank as the expression on his face. The only indication of any emotions he might have is a slight narrowing of his red eyes as he continues to speak. _If you don’t wish to die, then drink. Drink, and face me properly instead of running away. I made you to be stronger than this._

It should be a relief, to hear his sire finally speak to him, but the venom in those words take away any of that relief that Hank might have felt. If even Connor is forcing him to do this…

_I don’t want to kill them._ That’s one line Hank refuses to cross. No matter how bad things are, no matter how dire the situation is… he can’t do it. He will never willingly do it. To take away a human’s life is to lose that last bit of humanity that’s still within him, and that is one thing he will never let happen.

Connor doesn’t give him a verbal response, but Hank can see his eyes narrowing just a little bit more, though his expression remains carefully neutral, making hard to tell if Connor is displeased or not with his decision. There’s no time to dwell on the answer either, because his shadows are on the move once more. They close in on Hank, encircling around him like a pack of formless beasts cornering their prey. Hank can do nothing else but stand his ground, continuing to keep the hunter close to him even as urge to feed becomes harder to ignore. It’s risky as hell but leaving them behind is not an option; he’ll just have to use an opening when Connor attacks and figure something out from there.

Hank keeps his eye on the shadows as they continue to circle around him, attempting to make his best guess on how they’ll attack and how he can respond back in turn. He knows he doesn’t have much time, so he’ll just have to make do with the few precious seconds he can get until Connor makes his next move.

With how tense the situation is, every second that passes almost feels like an eternity unto itself. If it were possible, Hank would have been sweating buckets as he stands where he is, waiting for Connor to strike. Connor stares back at him in turn, his gaze unwavering, his whole body as still as a statue. The moment hangs between them, the tension thick and heavy. The edge of the precipice before the fall. 

And like the pendulum of a grandfather’s clock, it finally swings down, and the world explodes into action. 

The shadows lunge out at Hank from multiple directions, blocking off any possible ways that he could have used to escape.  
With other options blocked out, Hank has little choice left but to go with the last idea on his list—he turns himself around and crushes the hunter right up against him, using his own body as a shield to protect them.

It works, of course it does. The hunter remains completely unharmed, protected by Hank’s larger body as he takes the damage from Connor’s shadows. He winces as he feels the ice-cold sting of Connor’s shadows pierce through his body, adding on to both the pain and the blood loss. It hurts so much now, the pain nearly unbearable. All he knows is pain. Pain and darkness and the smell of blood. Was it his blood? Connor’s? It smells so, so _good_ —

Hank acts on instinct, tightening his hold on the hunter to keep them still and then leans in, biting down into their throat with fully extended fangs. Blood instantly floods his mouth, warm and delicious and _alive_ , and while it's nothing close to Connor’s blood he’s hungry enough that it doesn’t matter. Just the fact that it's fresh is already so good and amazing that he can only keep drinking. 

As he starts to drink he feels the hunter jerk in his arms, the pain of the bite having awakened them from their enthrallment, but it's a simple enough matter of using his superior strength to keep them from thrashing around too much as he takes all the blood that he needs to keep him alive. As he drinks he can hear something in him screaming about this at the back of his mind, but it doesn’t matter anymore. It doesn’t matter that he hates it, that he hates this. It’s far too good for him to stop.

With each desperate gulp he takes Hank can feel himself getting better, getting _stronger_ , and with that strength comes clarity of what he’s doing. He curses himself for his weakness even as he continues to feed, all too eager to drink as much blood as his body needs. But he only manages a few mouthfuls before he senses another shadow coming towards him. Hank is forced to pull away, shoving the hunter away as he dodges the attack.

Connor moves in the moment Hank breaks away from the hunter. He sends more of his shadows towards him, forcing Hank to retreat even further. As Hank falls back he sees the rest of Connor’s shadows slithering up to the hunter, solidifying themselves around the hunter to get a firm grip and begins to drag them towards the closest wall.

Hank quickly realizes what Connor is doing and snarls—his prey is being taken away from him, and there’s no way he’s letting that go. If he were of sound mind Hank would appreciate it, but right now he can’t deny the instinct that washes over him, overriding everything else with the desire to just bite and drink and feed. To just drain his prey dry and just fuck the consequences—

No, he can’t do that. Hank shakes the impulse off of him, trying to get himself to focus on what’s more important. And what’s more important right now is the sight of Connor lunging forward to attack once more. There isn’t enough time to dodge him but after having replenished himself to some degree, Hank now at least has the strength to put up a reasonable defence.

So that’s what he does. With his shadows occupied in keeping the hunter trapped Connor has switched to go up against Hank in hand to hand combat. He strikes are both quick and fast but Hank manages to meet each of them, doing his best to deflect and push him back. Hank knows that he can’t pull any punches, not with how much stronger Connor is compared to him. The one thing that he has over Connor is his bigger size, and so he attempts to use that to his advantage. 

For the most part it seems to work—that, or Connor is going easy on him. It’s hard to not believe that it's more of the latter, considering just how outclassed Hank knows he is compared to Connor. It’s hard to know if managing to go on this long is more of a good thing than a bad thing. Hank knows that Connor could have easily crushed him in the first ten seconds of their fight; in fact, he’s pretty certain that’s something the Council had been banking on. The fact that he’s lasted this long must be grating on them now. The thought of it is almost enough to make him smirk… but he can do that later, once this is over.

The time continues to tick down but there’s no way Hank can be certain just how much longer he needs to hold out. He does his best to keep up with Connor but his replenished strength is quickly dwindling. Healing those wounds has drained him, he won’t last long even with fresh blood running through him. He knows he has to be close to the five minute mark, but he’s pushed himself to the very edge and Hank can feel himself reaching the verge of complete exhaustion. It’s a risk to stop but Hank knows that he has to, or else he risks collapsing outright.

_Please, Connor,_ he tries to call out to his sire as he starts to break away, hoping that Connor will get the message. _I’m so done._ Surely, they had to be close to the mark. If Connor can lighten up just for these next few seconds, then they’ll be able to finally finish this. They can go home.

For a moment Hank can almost believe that Connor’s listening, but then Connor lunges forward just as Hank pulls back. Hank attempts to defend himself but realizes far too late that Connor has switched up from his usual attack; the next thing he knows is having the metaphorical breath knocked out of his lungs as Connor collides into him with a full-body tackle. Hank loses his balance and proceeds to topple onto the ground, though he isn’t about to just go down without a fight. As he falls he swings up the knife that’s still in his hand, landing a slash across Connor’s cheek. 

Something was wrong. It had to be. Connor takes the injury without even batting an eyelid. Blood swells up from the gash, it's color a bright, rich red, and the smell of it hits Hank harder than anything else he’s experienced this night. His eyes burn, and all of his senses tune towards the the siren call of his sire’s blood. The pull is so _strong_ it takes a second for Hank to pull himself back together, but that second is all that Connor needs to make his move. In a flash Connor is right over him, hands gripping onto his wrists; one twist is all he needs to make Hank drop the knife, and then he’s slamming them down onto the floor, pinning him down.

With him trapped like this, Hank knows full well that this fight is effectively over. Still, he’s not about just lose. He knows he has to try. Hank struggles as hard as he can even as Connor’s hands clamp down further on his wrists, his strength making them as unyielding as iron bands. Is Connor _trying_ to make him lose? What is he doing?

_Fucking—let me go!_ He tries to growl alongside those words but the wound on his throat is still healing, so the most that he manages is a wet gurgle. He’s so tired that he can’t really move at all, let alone use his abilities, but that doesn’t stop him from gnashing his teeth, reaching up however he can to try and bite Connor. Whatever he can do to make Connor back off. If this is an act, it’s a very good one. Hank really wishes he’d counted the minutes in his head, because he’s got no clue where they’re at and nothing he says seems to be reaching his sire.

Try as he might, however, all of Hank’s struggling amounts to nothing. Connor doesn’t even so much as budge through the whole thing. He continues to loom over Hank, deathly silent, red eyes boring into him unblinking. The blood from his cheek wound has slid down the column of his neck, staining the collar of his white dress shirt. Connor’s blood dripping out like this, and it smells so fucking good…

The hunger gnaws at him again, much more incessant than before. Hank tries to against fight it but all the constant struggling has taken its toll on his strength. He can feel the burn of his muscles as they scream to rest, and he can feel his limbs tremble as he reaches his absolute limit. 

Connor, of course, must have noticed this as well, and finally makes his move. He leans in, expertly avoiding Hank’s last few attempts to bite him, and the growl that Hank begins to let out turns into a whimper when he feels his sire’s _tongue_ running over the gash on his throat. He does it slowly; a long, sensual drag right up against the wound that sends sparks running through him. It shouldn’t feel good but his body betrays him, and the fact that his skin there is extremely sensitive due to his healing wound only makes it worse. It still hurts, but even with the pain and the strong intent to pull away and flee, Hank can’t fully fight against the instinct to do otherwise. 

Okay, _the the hell?_ Hank tries to jerk himself away as soon as Connor’s tongue leaves his throat, but to no avail; Connor simply tightens his grip even more, almost crushing his wrists to keep him still as he leans in and does it again. This time Hank can’t hold down the choked gasp that escapes him, the slowly growing haze at the back of his mind only held back by the panic that he feels as he realizes what’s going to happen. Was Connor seriously doing this? _Here_ of all places? What the fuck was going on? Hank panics, fighting him futilely as Connor’s presence threatens to overwhelm him. _Stop! Stop, this isn’t—Connor, please, everyone’s watching, **stop!**_

Connor doesn’t listen and instead leans all the way in, pressing his body down against Hank’s, trapping him further. Even like this it's impossible to ignore how warm and tempting Connor feels against him; the haze deepens, turning sweet and enticing, warm tendrils slithering out from the fog to curl around his mind, encouraging him to let go and give in. It’d be so good, the voice in his head whispers oh so seductively. It feels good to surrender and be his sire’s good, obedient fledgling. 

_Fuck._ Hank knows he should say no, needs to say no, but all the fighting has thoroughly exhausted him and he can already feel himself slipping. He needs to get out of this as soon as he can if he even wants to have a sliver of hope in retaining his self. The moment Connor does his thing—

With a broken growl Hank musters up the last of his strength and tries one more time to shake Connor off him. Connor budges just for a brief moment before he clamps down harder on Hank’s wrist and this time drags his fangs down the column of his neck. Hank jerks underneath him and lets out an involuntary cry at the white hot feeling that burns through his veins, potent and overwhelming. There’s no coming back from this, Hank knows that. He’s seen all the mindless fledglings, saved and killed and fought enough victims to know what’s going to happen. _**Connor…!**_ With the very last of his will, Hank tries to reach out—maybe… maybe if he can reach Connor, maybe he can stop him.

The only response he gets is the rush of sweet fog in his mind that engulfs him entirely. Hank falls, only to find himself held and cradled by the warm embrace of his master’s influence. Unlike all the other times however, this time he can feel his master’s influence slithering into every nook and cranny within him, filling him completely. All the pain and anger and sadness he feels instantly fades away, replaced by sweet, intoxicating pleasure. He doesn’t remember when he had ever felt so fulfilled, so whole and complete and incredible. Everything else is trivial now when he feels nothing else but just how _good_ it is.

He goes limp in his master’s hold, no longer struggling, happy to be kept and held like this. Why would he even think of trying to fight against something as wonderful as this? If anything all he wants to do is to fall deeper—to go all the way down and let his master claim him as he deserves. It is his master’s right, as his sire; and it is his duty, as his fledgling, to be his. There is nothing else more perfect or right than this.

Connor draws back, eyes gleaming a beautiful red as he looks down upon him, and the purr that his master gives in response to his submission makes him quiver in anticipation. He exists for nothing else but to please his sire. He is just an extension of the master whose blood runs in his veins, and to be fully claimed is the greatest gift that can be given to somebody like him. He’s so happy that his eyes are brimming with tears of joy.

_Master…_ He moans, tilting his head back as he calls for Connor, fully baring his neck so that his sire can take him completely. It doesn’t take long before he can feel the points of his master’s fangs pressed right over the marks of his neck, making him shiver. His master has graciously accepted his offering, and the knowledge of that has anticipation building up within him. Soon, his master will bite down, and then he can truly belong to him.

He feels his self already beginning to drift away as he hears his master’s pleased croon. The sound of it sends another ripple of pleasure through him, a reward for being good. He wants to be good, and soon he can always be good for him. Always, forever, he’d be good for him—

_That’s enough, Connor. The five minutes have passed._

He hears the voice, female and dignified, but it registers as nothing but a distant, negligible thing for him. The same, however, apparently doesn’t hold true for his master. Connor comes to an abrupt stop mere inches away from his neck, suddenly frozen in place. The moment hangs, long and poignant, and when it gets too much to bear he whines softly. Just a little more and everything would’ve been _perfect_ —why would his sire come all the way to this, only to stop?

Connor jerks up at his plea, as if surprised by it, and then in the next moment he’s suddenly pulling away and getting off him entirely. His master’s sudden departure leaves him with a void down to his soul, the place where his master would’ve been within him now empty and gaping and hollow. All the warmth and goodness in his body vanishes, and in its place are all the aches and pains of his battered, injured body, now without the comfort of his master’s influence to soothe it away.

It hurts so much and he can’t understand why. The memory seems distant and clouded, so unimportant compared to his sire’s presence before him. Why does it hurt so much? Why didn’t his master make it feel better? He doesn’t even try to sit or stand—he simply remains where he is, lying down on the floor and whimpering, pathetically trying to call for his sire’s attention, but it does not come even though he can hear his master speaking nearby. “Hank is still alive,” Connor’s voice comes out as a snarl. Was his sire angry with him? Had he done something wrong? “He has passed.”

_That he has. He has lasted against you, the best of our kind. That alone has proven his worth._ He barely registers those words, he can’t remember who says them and frankly he doesn't care at all. He just wants his master. He feels so empty and cold without him. His master made him this way, so why would he leave without him? _He has passed Presentation. The Council officially accepts him as your First._

“Then he’s done here.” Not a second later, Hank feels the warm, familiar darkness that gathers around him. He knows instinctively that these are his master’s shadows that have come to claim him, and the knowledge of that brings him comfort. Their touch is gentle and soothing, easing away some of the hollow ache inside of him. But even then it doesn’t stop the sorrowful whine that escapes him because as good as the shadows are, it's still not enough. He wants Connor. He wants his master. The only thing he wants is for his master to take him. He’s nothing without him. _Nothing._

He wants to call out for his master, to make him turn around and look at him—but the shadows rise up, engulfing him entirely, and the last thing he sees before the darkness claims him is the sight of his master’s back, so very far away.

* * *

When Hank wakes up it's with a jerk and a shout, followed by an attempt to sit up that quickly falls short. Not for any reason besides the fact that he feels utterly exhausted, in both body and mind. Even his sleep, as uneventful as it’d been, had done little to make it better. If anything, the softness of his bed is a jarring dichotomy from the events of… of his Presentation.

God, his ‘Presentation’. What a fucking disaster that had been. Did he even pass? Does it even matter if he did? He certainly doesn’t feel like he should’ve, especially considering what happened at the end; he was barely even in control at that point. The last thing he can recall is Connor looming over him, overpowering him, and completely drowning his sense of self and doing exactly what some _thing_ like him always does when he wants to get his way. Mind control. He should’ve known it would happen, wasn’t that what all vampires did? Despite everything that Connor might’ve said or done there is no changing the fact that he is a _monster_ , and Hank would do well to stop forgetting it. 

And it's not just Connor, either; all of them are monsters, every single one of them. They’d tossed a human at him to use because they didn’t care, just like how Connor ultimately hadn’t cared about him at all despite Hank wanting to believe otherwise. The only thing Connor wanted was a puppet just like the rest of them.

Fuck, to think that he even trusted him at all in the first place. It’s clear to Hank now that the night before all this had been nothing more than a fluke. It disgusts him now to think that he even spent that night lying with him and enjoying his presence. It’d been nothing more than one huge plot to get his trust. What kind of an idiot falls for that? He’d fought so hard for Connor, and for what? For _this_?

What a fucking joke. Hank is still tired to the bone, but now that Connor’s shown his true colors there’s no fucking way Hank is going to just stick around and let it happen again. He can’t stay here. He forces himself to turn onto his side, ready to force himself out of this bed and this room and this _house_ —only to stop and tense up when he sees that Connor has placed himself right at his bedside. 

Connor’s gaze instantly snaps onto him the moment Hank sees him. “Hank,” he begins to say, but Hank has no desire to listen to any of his bullshit. He instantly forces himself to turn back the other way and keeps his silence. Hank has nothing at all to speak with to a monster like him.

For a while the silence stretches on, and Hank almost thinks that Connor’s gotten the message, but of course he has to be proven otherwise. “Hank,” he hears him say again, and maybe in the past he might’ve felt some sympathy for the uncertainty that he can hear in his voice, but now Hank has no more fucks to give for him. He doesn’t deserve it. “You’re… you need to eat.”

Hearing something like _that_ after everything only makes his anger boil even more. Hank hisses in return, even though the effort makes his still-healing throat hurt. He doesn’t want Connor anywhere near him. He doesn’t want to hear his voice or even _see_ him. He doesn’t want to be reminded of what happened. He wants to leave. He doesn’t want to be this _thing_.

He opens his mouth, ready to snarl the words back at him, but his throat stings again to remind him of his injury. With how much damage he’d taken there’s no way he can manage to speak clearly; the only option left is to talk to him through their bond. That’s the last thing Hank wants to do, but the need to make himself clear outweighs everything else, so he forces himself to do so.

_I don’t care,_ is the first thing he bites out the moment he knows Connor can hear him. He pulls his broken coat tighter around himself and lets out a broken growl. _Why don’t you just_ make _me do it and get it over with? Throw me another dying guy, that worked out pretty fucking well, didn’t it?_

“I…” The uncertainty in Connor’s voice is stronger, now. Hank can’t bring himself to care. Why should he? Connor certainly doesn’t. “I will leave once you eat.” His voice dips down as he says those words, becoming so soft that Hank almost can’t hear him. “I just want to make sure that your wounds are healing well.”

Connor wants to check up on him? After all that he’s done? Yeah, right. Hank continues to ignore him and opts to curl in on himself further. God, he should’ve just died. He _wants_ to die. What use is there in a life as fucked up as this? He might have his free will, but it’s clear that Connor doesn’t value it. It’s absolutely fucking clear that Connor has never cared about him as a person—all he wants is an _object_. A piece of meat he can show off or take a bit out of whenever he’s hungry or lonely. 

That thought only makes Hank curl up even more. Fuck, he’d had tried _so_ hard for Connor. He had fought, he’d been tortured, he’d put through so much shit and done it all because he truly had believed that maybe Connor would really be better than the other monsters they’d met. What a big fat lie that had all been.

He clenches his fists hard enough to make his knuckles turn white. If he wasn’t this worn out he’d go up to Connor right now and given him a fucking punch on his stupid fucking face. Instead all he can do show his anger and hurt over Connor’s betrayal. _**Make me,**_ he growls, every word seething with white-hot rage. _You clearly didn’t have a problem ignoring what I want before. What’s stopping you now? Just fucking do it instead of feeding me all of this bullshit._

“Hank, I didn’t—” Connor starts only to stop, the hesitation still evident even from his voice alone. “I never wanted any of this.”

Never wanted it. Yeah, right. Hank lets out another growl, sneering at those words. _Why the fuck should I believe you?_ After what he’s done, does he really expect Hank to just believe in what he says?

“What happened at your Presentation was—the Council planned for it to happen.” Connor sounds uncharastically harried now, words coming out from him in a rush as he attempts to explain things. “They knew I would be forced to come down, and they knew that I…”

He trails off then, apparently unable to even finish explaining himself. Not that it matters anyway—this isn’t something that can be so easily brushed off with just a fucking _explanation_. Even if it made sense. Actually, the fact that it does make sense only makes it worse. If Connor could be played like this—if all it took for Connor to turn on his own fledgling is a little prodding, then what was any of this, besides delaying the inevitable? If this was always going to happen, then Hank really has no sympathy for him. 

Hank feels himself starting to shake with rage. _All that means is that this is just gonna fucking happen again!_ he snarls back, wanting nothing more than to make his point clear. Sure, Connor can make mistakes, but when those mistakes nearly cost Hank his _mind_ , that’s a bit more than a simple ‘mistake’. _How fucking easy is it for you to just end me? That’s what you really want, isn’t it? Why not just get it over with now, so you can stop fighting the fucking temptation and just do it!_

“It won’t happen again.” Connor says quickly, then repeats his words with more conviction. “I swear it won’t happen again. They brought the human knowing you wouldn’t fight back, and knew that I had to step in. And they used that against me.”

He pauses again after those words, but doesn’t let the silence linger for long. “I can’t… I don’t want to lose anything that makes you who you are. Believe me when I say that.”

The last few words are what sends Hank into a boiling rage. He’s angry enough that he actually turns around to face Connor, angry tears welling up at the corner of his eyes as Hank snarls at his face. 

“ _I don’t believe you._ ” The words come out strangled from his broken throat, but Hank needs to say the words out loud to make it real. For both Connor, as well as himself. After all that’s happened, after what’s been done to him, he has to remind himself of the reality of what he has to deal with. That no matter how much his instincts beg for him to trust his sire, there is no way Hank can bring himself to do that. Not anymore. He can’t suffer through another betrayal like this. “I asked you to stop—I _begged_ you to stop. But it's in your fucking nature to just _own_ me and I should just fucking accept that?!”

Connor doesn’t exactly flinch at Hank’s outburst, but the discomfort on his face has never been more obvious in the time Hank has known him thus far. “I know you did,” he replies, his tone harried again. “I know you did, and I wanted to stop, but I—”

He stops himself there, but the damage has already been done. It's not hard to guess what the missing words are and knowing that just makes it worse. If Connor can’t fucking control himself over something like this, then how the fuck can Hank trust him on anything at all?

Hank continues to fume, opening his mouth with the intention to spit out more of his anger at Connor, but he’s cut short when Connor speaks up again. “I have failed you as your sire. Betrayed your trust. That is my responsibility to bear. Whatever I can do to make up for it… I will do so, without question.” His drops his gaze then, staring down onto his hands. “I will do whatever it takes for me to earn your trust again.”

Is hearing that supposed to make him better? Make him feel _sorry_? If anything it does the exact opposite. _That’s just it, isn’t it?_ he growls through their bond, his throat hurting far too much after his previous outburst to let him continue speaking. _I fucking_ trusted _you! You_ killed _me, you sonuvabitch, and I was still fucking dumb enough to trust you!_ Just how stupid could he be? He should’ve known, should’ve have kept on suspecting instead of giving in—Hank’s just as pissed at himself now as he is at Connor. How could he think he could’ve had any agency at all, when his own death is the very reason why he’s in this fucking mess.

God, if he could get out of bed right now and give Connor that punch to the face. That’s the _least_ he deserves for all the shit he’s done. But he can’t do that, so the next best thing is to put all his anger and rage and pain into his words as he snarls them through their link, so Connor knows _exactly_ how betrayed he feels. Of how deeply Connor has violated his trust. _Why the fuck should I make the same mistake again, huh? What fucking reason is there besides your ‘your belong to me and I’m going to make you mine’ bullshit?!_

Connor looks up at that point and opens his mouth, probably to answer his question, but Hank cuts him off with a growl before he can even start. _I don’t wanna hear your damn excuses! I’m not making the same mistake again, so if you want me to ‘trust’ you, then you’d better fucking_ force _me because I’m fucking done with you._

He gives Connor one last glare after those words, and then turns himself back around so that he isn’t looking at Connor any more than he already has. The silence settles in, thick and taut with tension, brimming with an anger that can only come from a betrayal so deep.

For a long while that silence continues to stretch on, unbroken by either of them. Hank can still sense Connor’s presence nearby and it only makes him stubbornly stay where he is, unwilling to do anything to regard him. No matter what the asshole does, there’s no way Hank is going to even so much as acknowledge him anymore. He doesn’t even deserve that.

He doesn’t keep track of how much time has passed, but eventually Connor does finally speak up. “I failed you,” he says, voice nearly inaudible. “That is the truth.”

Another pause, but this one is much more brief, soon broken by the drag of the chair’s legs as Connor presumably stands up from where he’d been sitting. “I… there is nothing else I can say. All I can ask is for you to focus on healing. We can discuss this next time, when you are ready to do so.”

There is only one more pause after that before Hank hears the soft click of Connor’s shoes against the floor that quickly get further away from him, followed by the equally quiet click of the door as Connor closes it after his exit from the room.

It is a relief, to hear those footsteps fade away, but at the same time it fills him with an indescribable mix of sadness and rage and so many other emotions that he can no longer hold back the dam inside of him any longer. He curls up as tightly as he can and lets it all out through his tears, the sound of his own broken sobs echoing in his ears. God, he’d been so stupid. He let himself care so much for somebody like Connor—he let himself _trust_ a monster like him. Of _course_ that trust’d be broken. Of course he’d be hurt. What else could he have expected? He’s such a fool. A big, fucking fool and an idiot.

Regardless of the cause, it’s still Connor’s responsibility for what happened, so Hank can’t feel sorry for him. Everything that Connor did to him back there has hurt him too much for him to feel anything else besides pain and rage. 

If only he could do something else besides this. But there isn’t much else he can do in the state that he’s in. He can’t move, can’t leave, can’t die—he can’t even fucking _speak_. All he can do is to cry and hope that somehow, the pain in his dead heart eventually subsides.

But he knows better than that. A pain like this? It will never disappear, for as long as he’s alive.

_”I should’ve fucking died.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [march of the black dog (and centipedes).](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TAmiNk_HCNs)
> 
> Alternatively: Connor Fucks Up, The Chapter.
> 
> Anyway, so! Yes! Another chapter finally up after... two and a half months lmao. It really has been a while for sure. I definitely didn't intend for the break to be this long, but one stuff led to another annnnd... yeah. But regardless, I am slowly getting myself back on track, and I am happy to come back to this verse. Thank you all for being patient through this long break.
> 
> Special thanks, as always, to **jan** for working with me on this chapter to make it as good as it can be, and to **jj** for helping me beta this and assuring me I covered all the bases in regards to warnings for this chapter. I figure it'd be best to err on the side of caution for this particular case, considering what happens... and hoo boy, things sure did happen alright. :')
> 
> The next chapter will definitely be a bit again (due to a mix of stuff, including being part of the Hankcon Reverse Bang), so if you want updates and other stuff feel free to follow me on Twitter at **tasogareika**! Otherwise, thank you all again for your patience through the wait, and for reading/commenting on this chapter and this fic. I appreciate each and every comment that is here.


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